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/L 







SILENT WITNESS 




BY 


MBS. J. H. WALWORTH 




AUTHOR OF "THElj^R SINISTER,” “ OLD FULKERSON’s CLERK,” “SCRUPLES,” 


“the ne^^^n at rossmerh,” “without blemish,” etc. 


# 



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Ll/v\I 1 ED • 


• 7 ^ <^41 BRpAD\V^Y- 


filtered at the Post Office, New York. N. Y., as Second Class Matter. 


187 BY O. M. DUNHAM. 




tfii/nmrny Branyf^J 



. • ^ 



“Failh, they say Sapolio maliea labor aisy. I 
'Wish I’d some of it wid me now.” 


SAPOLIO 

lightens all kinds of labor in cleaning, but it won't 
wash clothes or split wood. 

Sapolio is a solid, handsome cake ^ of house-cleaning 
Soap, which has no equal for all scouring purposes except 
the laundry. To use it is to value it. What will Sapolio 
do? Why, it will clean paint, make oil-cloths bright, and 
give the doors, tables and shelves a new appearance. It 
will take the grease off the dishes and off the pots and 
pans. You can scour the knives and forks with it, and 
make the tin things shine brightly. The wash-basin, the . 
bath-tubf even the greasy kitclien-sink will be as clean as 
a new pin if you use Sapolio. One cake will prove all we 
say. Be a clever housekeeper and try it. Beware of imita- 
tions. There is but one Sapolio. No. 22. 


THE 


SILENT WITNESS 



MRS. jy-H. WALWORTH 

\\ 

AUTHOR OF “the BAR SINISTER,” “ OLD FULKERSON'‘S CLERK,'’ 
“scruples,” “the new man at ROSSMERE,” 
“without blemish/’ etc. 



CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited 

104 — 106 Fourth Avenue, New York 


Copyright, 

1888, 

By O. M. DUNHAM. 


All ‘rights reserved. 


Reprinted from Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly by 
permission of Mrs. Frank Leslie. 



Pres* W. L. Mershon & Co., 
Rahway, N. J. 


:> 

k 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter I. 

Suspected, _ _ _ _ 

Chapter II. 

A Stolen Secret, _ _ _ 

Chapter III. 

Expatriated, _ _ _ _ 

Chapter IV. 
Quite a Business Woman, 

Chapter V. 

Mr. Gorham’s Equipoise again Disturbed, 
Chapter VI. 
Opening Day, - - - - 

Chapter VII. 

A Startling Discovery, 

Chapter VIII. 
Sunshine and Mr. Gorham, 

Chapter IX. 

As the Days go Gliding by. 

Chapter X. 

A Stranger in a Strange Land, 

Chapter XI. 

A Supplemental Surprise, 

Chapter XII. 

The Captain’s Arm-Chair, 


PAGE 

I 

II 

i8 

25 

36 

48 

56 

65 

72 

80 

92 

100 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Chapter XIII. 

Mrs. Loring waxes Confidential, - - - 107 

Chapter XIV. 

Plans for the Future, - - - - 116 

Chapter XV. 

A Foe in the Household, _ - - - 122 

Chapter XVI. 

“ That Fool Sallie,” - - - - 128 

Chapter XVII. 

A Dying Confession, - - - - - i37 

Chapter XVIII. 

An Awakening, - _ _ _ - 147 

Chapter XIX. 

A Dangerous Consolation, - - - - 150 

Chapter XX. 

Mrs. Melmont has a Grievance, - - - 157 

Chapter XXL 

“ Alas for the Rarity of Christian Charity ! ” - - 163 

Chapter XXII. 

Foiled by a Carpet-Tack, - - - - 168 

Chapter XXXIII. 

“ Way down upon the Old Plantation,” - - 171 

Chapter XXIV. 

Converging Rays, - - -■ - 177 

Chapter XXV. 

Run to Earth, - - - - - 180 

Chapter XXVI. 

The Silent Witness, - - - - 186 

Chapter XXVII. 

The Bitter End, - - - - - 191 

Chapter XXVIII. 

Rosa makes a Choice, - ' - -- - - 197 

Chapter XXIX. 

206 


Conclusion, 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


CHAPTER I. 


SUSPECTED. 


a 


Y' 


OU do not know me ? 

I am afraid, sir, I cannot claim that honor.” 

Between the two voices and the two faces of the two 
men who confronted each other in the asking and the 
answering of that question above, there was all the wide 
difference that ranges climatically between the torrid and 
the frigid zones. 

The question seemed rather a cry of pained resent- 
ment than a simple inquiry. The answer was rather a 
polite intimation of total indifference than a simple re- 
joinder. 

Either by reason of rapid motion having rendered his 
respiration laborious, or by reason of some mighty in- 
ternal agitation, the voice of the questioner quivered 
with an agony of impatient disappointment, as if his 
soul, surcharged with an overwhelming need of sym- 
pathy or help, cried out in protest against the bland in- 
difference and heart-chilling courteousness of the man 
who answered. 

The man who answered was a Mr. Hugh Gorham, one 
of the city’s first criminal lawyers. A man who, by sheer 
force of a well-balanced brain, indomitable resolution 
and cold-blooded indifference to the emotional aspect of 
life, had reached an altitude from which he could well af- 
ford to mete out bland but frigid courtesy to the suppli- 
ant masses. 

His law-office had just been invaded by a young man, 
who, entering very much after the gusty fashion of a 
rude west wind, now stood before him, flushing and pal- 
ing by turns, clasping his long white hands together 


2 


THE SILENT WITNESS, 


with the nervous tension of a frightened woman, only to 
straightway unfold them again to clasp them about the 
railing of the desk behind which Mr. Gorham sat placid- 
ly mending a pencil-point. 

So much depended upon his being remembered rather 
than recognized — not by name only, nor face, nor voice, 
but with that fond heart recollection which should bring 
back forcibly the “ auld lang syne ” common to them 
both — that, folding his arms with moody resolution, Mr. 
Gorham’s visitor fastened upon him a pair of dark eyes 
fdled with gloom, and stood in pathetic patience, as if 
resolved to give the lawyer’s treacherous memory ample 
time to assert itself and recall his effaced image. 

And the man with the treacherous memory, fixing his 
cold gray eyes in a penetrating fashion on the youthful 
face before him, deliberately inventoried the features, 
pronouncing the face (mentally)^ decidedly handsome, 
despite the present haggard misery in it, but repeated, 
with the most icy imperturbability : 

“ I am afraid, sir, 1 cannot claim the honor. I really 
cannot place you.” 

“ Look again, Gorham ! Look well ! For God’s sake, 
try to know me ! What will it avail to give you my name 
if my image is so completely wiped out ? Can it be that 
this infernally black morning has blotted all the human- 
ity out of my features ? ” And he who pleaded for recog- 
nition as for some great boon, impatiently thrust back 
the clinging masses of waving brown hair that hung tena- 
ciously to his clammy brow, never once permitting the 
lids to droop over the burning black eyes that held the 
calm gaze of the great advocate in spite of himself. 

Mr. Gorham did “look again,” did “look well,” but 
all to no purpose. There was not a gleam of recognition 
in his eyes, or in his voice, when he said, in a voice 
quickened into asperity : 

“ Give me your name at once, young man, and let me 
have a lucid statement of your business with me. Speak 
quickly and to the point, if you please, for my time is 
too valuable to be wasted upon private theatricals ; and, 
permit me to add, that facial gymnastics are altogether 
misplaced in a lawyer’s office.” 

He could afford to dictate terms, could Mr. Hugh 


SUSPECTED. 


3 


Gorham, for he was a power in a large city where crimes 
were manifold and criminals plentiful. A man of brains, 
of repute and of wealth, a rack of defence to the law- 
abiding and a sword of terror to the law-breaker. 

“ What do you want ? ” he asked, with cold delibera- 
tion, the added chill to his voice alone betraying his 
impatience. 

“I want help.” 

“ Of what description ? ” 

“ To escape the gallows ! ” 

The phenomenon of a man seeking escape from the 
gallows was altogether too familiar to the great criminal 
lawyer to produce more than a slight accession of pro- 
fessional curiosity in his case-hardened breast. 

Deliberately placing on the rack the lead-pencil he had 
been sharpening, after a final examination of the fine point 
of it, he carefully wiped off the minute particles of lead 
adhering to his fingers, leaned back in his revolving 
office-chair, and raised his cold eyes to the troubled face 
before him, asking : 

“ What have you done ? ” 

White, trembling, voiceless, his visitor leaned still more 
heavily upon the desk, his lips twitching in a vain effort 
to formulate the words which would not come. 

“ In God’s name, speak out, man ! Who are you ? ” 
exclamed the lawyer, his sluggish curiosity at last quick- 
ened into pitying interest by the writhing agony distort- 
ing the almost boyish features before him. 

“ I am George Kendall ! ” were the only words that 
came. 

“ What, you George Kendall ? It cannot be ! ” 

“ But it can be ! It is ! And you would not know 
me, Hugh !” 

“ Would not ? — say could not, my boy,” and the great 
criminal lawyer sto^ up to lay his hand in friendliness 
on the one which still convulsively clasped the railing on 
the back of his desk; “ Gregory Kendall, my sunny-faced 
little fag at school ! Greg, whom I badgered and pro- 
tected by turns ! I’ve not seen the boy for fifteen long 
years, but I’ve thought of him kindly, ay, even affection- 
ately, through all the companionless days of my hardened 
manhood. Why, Gregory was just the brightest, merriest. 


4 


I'lIE SILENT WITNESS. 


clieeriest-voiced lad that ever made fun for his mates or 
trouble for his masters. Gregory was a sunbeam, while 
you — ” 

Mr. Gorham paused just in time not to complete the 
sacrifice of his politeness to his incredulity. 

“ I was all that in the gay old days of Princeton, 
Hugh ! ” said the younger man, a wintry smile more 
pathetic than tears flitting across his features like a 
shadowy reflection from the brightness of the long ago 
thus pictured by his friend. “ But I am — what — I am.” 

“ You are Gregory Kendall ! I know you now, and 
here is my hand, my boy, on it that it is not only the 
memory of eye and voice. And now, here, you’ve stood 
there trembling like a convicted murderer long enough, 
I know of old what an exaggerated conscience you have. 
Come, tell me your trouble. You know I will help you 
out of it if mortal aid can avail. I shall feel quite in 
character,” he added, lightly, ‘‘ to be helping my old frg 
out of a scrape.” 

A smile that but few ever saw flashed across Mr. Gor- 
ham’s severe features, illuminating their cold beauty as 
does a sudden outburst of sunshine illuminate the bosom 
of a frozen lake, and he essayed to draw the shaken man 
to a seat within his inner office, with the tender solicitude 
of a brother. 

But Gregory resisted the kindly intention, and pushing 
back the outstretched hands of his friend, he said, in a 
voice that trembled with excitement, while his eyes w'ere 
strained towards the street : 

“ Look, Hugh ! there is Wilson, the detective ! He 
is coming here ! coming to tell you that Dr. Spencer 
Whitehurst was found dead in his office this morning ! 
— murdered in cold blood ! And they wdll want to 
retain you for the prosecution ! ” 

“ Well,” said the lawyer, in the soothing fashion one 
adopts in dealing with a disordered mind (which he 
began to suspect was the case wdth Gregory Kendall), 
“ that is a brilliant notion of yours. Why should Wilson 
toil up my tw'O flights of stairs to tell me privately wdiat 
the morning papers have already told publicly ? More- 
over, the employment of counsel does not come within 
the province of Detective Wilson.” 


SUSPECTED. 


5 


“ Tell him,” said Gregory, trembling violently, “ that I, 
Gregory Kendall, your old fag, Hugh, have already 
retained you for the defense ! ” 

“ What ! You, Gregory, a mur — ” 

“ Hush ! I said so ! I hear him panting up the stairs! 
Where can I stop until this man leaves you ? ” 

Conscious only of the old-time dependence of fag and 
champion, doubting somewhat the sanity of his visitor, 
above all, perhaps, willing to avoid a denouement not 
planned and executed by his own legal astuteness, Mr. 
Gorham pointed to a door that connected his office with 
his living rooms, saying: “ Go in there. Close the door 
and make yourself thoroughly at home until I come to 
you. You will be undisturbed. No one dares cross that 
threshold unbidden by me.” 

Waiting for no second bidding, Gregory Kendall 
sprang into the inner room, and from his place of hiding 
heard the detective creak his way heavily up the stairs 
and into the presence of the great criminal lawyer, greet- 
ing him with : 

“ 'Morning, counselor : Infernal steep climb to get to 
you ! But you’re snug enough after a fellow does reach 
you. Private I should say too, hey ? ” 

“ Quite private, Mr. Wilson ; be seated, sir,” Mr. Gor- 
ham answered in friendlier tones than were habitual to 
him in his dealings with this branch of the legal frater- 
nity. 

Mr. Wilson dropped heavily into a chair, wiped his 
round red face with a handkerchief of dubious whiteness, 
and inquired : 

“ Busy, hey, counselor ? Plenty to do ? Looks sorter 
like it ! ” he added, with an envious glance around the 
luxurious office, and an inward speculation as to his own 
chances of ever mounting to such glittering heights from 
the lowly round of the legal ladder upon which his ambi- 
tious feet were sturdily planted. 

“ About as busy as usual,” the lawyer remarked, care- 
lessly. 

“ Give us your ear for half an hour, hey, say ? ” 

“ I am at your disposal for that length of time, but no 
longer,” said Mr. Gorham, whose moments who were 
valued by dollars not cents. He glanced at the hand- 


6 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


some bronze clock on the mantel to gauge the alloted 
half-hour. 

“ Well, then, counselor. I’ve come here to state a case 
and get an opinion. You see, it’s this way — ” 

“ Speak to the point, Mr. Wilson. You detectives have 
a fashion of spinning your yarn of circumstantial noth- 
ings to a very tedious length, and I forewarn you, I shall 
give you the promised thirty minutes and not one over.” 

“ This time, as it happens. I’ve got no yarn to spin ; 
in fact. I’ve been wool-gathering to little or no purpose 
all morning,” and the detective consumed fully one 
minute of the precious thirty vouchsafed him in chuck- 
ling over his own wit. 

“ To proceed,” said the counselor, impatiently. 

“Well, sir, here’s my case in a nutshell : Dr. Spencer 
Whitehurst, the eminent chemist on Cherry Street, was 
found dead in his office-chair yesterday morning, between 
ten and twelve o’clock ; his head resting on his desk, the 
pen with which he had been writing clinched tight in his 
hand, and a bullet-hole through his heart. His old 
mother, all the kin, he’s got in the world (and mighty 
nigh a lunatic made by this day’s work), sent for me im- 
mediately and offered me a thousand dollars down if I’d 
find out who done the deed. And you see, counselor, 
that thousand dollars down is not to be sneezed at.” 

“ I do not doubt it will prove a powerful incentive to 
the performance of your duty, Mr. Wilson,” the jurist 
said, coldly. 

“ Here’s the devil of it, though, counselor ! How to 
go about it. It is altogether the blankest wall ever I did 
run against.” 

“ Was the deceased alone in his office all the morning,” 
the lawyer asked. 

“Next door to it, excepting one female patient as 
called early.” 

“ May I inquire, Mr. Wilson, what you mean by ‘next 
door to alone ’ ? ” 

“ I mean this : Dr. Whitehurst, so the old lady tells 
me, although giving his especial attention of late to his 
drug store and laboratory, has never given over practic- 
ing, but has always kept office hours from nine until one 
o’clock of mornings. He has been experimenting of late 


SUSPECTED. 


1 


on a deaf and dumb girl, the daughter of a cousin of 
hers, a rich Southern planter, whom he, the doctor, had 
believed he could cure of her deafness' anyways. For 
an hour or so every day he sorter practiced on her. 
Now, whether she was in the room and saw the deed 
done, or went in there and found the doctor a murdered 
man (his office, I should a told you, is on the ground 
floor of his mother’s house) it’s liard to decide. I’m 
inclined to think it was the first, for she looks kind of 
wild and scared, and goes through the motions of a man 
firing, and a man dropping his head on his arms, just for 
all the world like she was acting in charades. I'hen 
she’ll shiver and tremble and point towards the door of 
the office that gives immediate on the street. But a 
voiceless witness is poor material to work up a case on, 
counselor, so that’s what I mean by his being next door 
to alone.” 

“ Is the deaf and dumb alphabet unavailable ? ” Mr. 
Gorham asked, with indiscreet interest. 

“ Entirely, and I’ll tell you for why. The tale Mrs. 
Whitehurst tells me is : ‘ That as long as this young 
lady’s mother was alive, being sort of ashamed, you see, 
of the girl’s affliction, or motherlike wanting to shield 
her child from the heartless curiosity of the world, she 
kept her at home and devoted her own life to making 
the poor thing happy, but when the mother died, the 
father he brought her on to Dr. Wliitehurst (kin, as 1 
told you before) and not wisliing to put her into a com- 
mon asylum, he left her with them to be educated in 
that dumb show of language.’ She ain’t been here more 
than a month, and what little she may have learned has 
been clean scared out of her by this morning’s work.” 

“ Does suspicion rest upon no one ? ” 

“ The mother has her suspicions, but she can give me 
no atom of even circumstantial evidence to go to work 
upon.” 

“ Whom does she suspect ? ” 

“ A young man between which and the doctor there’s 
always existed the friendliest relations. A young man 
of unblemished character and spotless reputation and 
great popularity. A handsome young fellow, with a 
beautiful wife and one cherub infant.” 


8 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


“ I should prefer names to panegyrics, Mr. Wilson, if 
you please,” said the lawyer, in his most dampening 
manner. 

“Well, then, she suspects one Gregory Kendall !” 

“ Gregory Kendall ! ” Mr. Gorham repeated the 
name in a calmly meditative fashion, as if merely to 
impress it upon his menory. “And why, may I ask, if 
this Gregory Kendall is all that you have just pronounced 
him, should suspicion of so foul a deed be laid at his 
door ? ” 

“Her son,” so the old lady says, “ was an old lover of 
Kendall’s wife, and he had never gotten over his fancy 
for her.” 

“ That counts for nothing. It might indeed if White- 
hurst had killed Kendall.” 

“ Nothing to you and me, counselor, but it’s moun- 
tains of evidence to the poor old mother.” 

“ Well, my friend,” — Mr. Gorham yawned and looked 
wistfully into his clock’s deliberate face — “what course 
have you mapped out to secure your thousand dollars ? I 
really cannot see why you have bored me with your 
case.” 

“ I wanted an opinion from you.” 

“I have none to give you, absolutely none.” 

“ I did think of bringing the dumb girl face to face 
with this Kendall, and if his presence seemed to affect 
her in any violent fashion, I might consider myself at 
least on the scent of my game. Moughten I now ? ” 
coaxingly. 

“ A good idea. I wish you all manner of success in 
it. Our half-hour has expired, Mr. Wilson. This is 
clearly a case for your branch of the legal profession, 
not mine. First scent your game, then run it to earth, 
and, probably, I may be in at the death.” 

“ Exactly,” says the detective, emphatically. 

Then, as Mr. Gorham rose from his chair, by way of 
indicating that the interview was terminated, Mr. Wil- 
son, perforce did the same, and was about to bow him- 
self out of the presence of the great advocate, when that 
gentleman asked him, in a careless fashion, an apparently 
irrelevant question: 

“ By-the-way, Mr. Wilson, in examining the office of 


SUSPECTED. 9 

the deceased, did you chance to notice what he had been 
writing in the last moments of his existence ? ” 

“ I did, sir. It was a letter.” 

“ A letter ! — and to whom ? Was that noted ? ” 

“ Strange to say, the first part of the letter was torn 
away, as if some one had tried to wrench it out of his 
possession ; the latter part lay under his outstretched 
hand, the hand upon which his head rested,” 

“ The signature, then, remained ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ May I ask how it ran ? ” 

“ ‘ Yours unto the bitter end. S. W.' ” 

“ Thank you. That will do. We are as much in the 
dark as ever.” 

This time Mr. Wilson was allowed to bow himself out 
without further interruption. 

Then Mr. Gorham crossed the threshold of the room 
into which he had banished Gregory Kendall, and 
glanced wonderingly around. The room was vacant. 

There was still an inner room, a mere alcove, where 
the lawyer’s bedstead stood alone. Towards this he 
walked, and there, sleeping the soundless, dreamless sleep 
of a tired child, lay the man suspected of murder. 

The angel of rest had tenderly smoothed away the 
deep furrows from his broad white forehead : the long 
black lashes that fringed his eyes, so lately wild with ter- 
ror and misery, rested quietly upon his pallid cheeks. 
Surely such rest could never have come to Cain. Con- 
science could not slumber so peacefully. Blood-stained 
hands could not fold themselves so restfully. 

The great criminal lawyer gazed down upon his old- 
time friend, and for the first time in his legal career con- 
fessed himself at a loss. 

“ Though they counted their witnesses by the tens of 
thousands, though they piled an Ossa of evidence upon 
a Pelion of oaths, nothing short of that man’s own full 
confession shall ever make me believe him a murderer ! ” 
he muttered, in an energetic undertone ; then seated 
himself by the bed to watch the sleeper or to await his 
first action on returning to consciousness. 

But Gregory Kendall was sleeping the sleep of utter 
physical and mental prostration, and, before he awoke, 


lo THE SILENT WITNESS. 

the busy stir in the streets outside had subsided into a 
lazy, after-dinner murmur, and the lamp-lighters were 
running from post to post with the nimbleness of squir- 
rels. 

A long-drawn sigh, a quiet uprising of the white lids, 
and Gregory sat bolt upright, with his large black eyes 
fixed sadly on his old-time friend. He did not wait for 
the lawyer to say anything. 

“ I rushed in upon you like a madman, Hugh, and I 
have been a madman since twelve o’clock this morning. 
But I am calmer now. Calm enough, if needs be, to 
meet my fate like a man at the hands of the law. 1 lis- 
tened to you and Wilson long enough to be satisfied that 
suspicion rests on me and on no one else. Am I 
right ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

That is well. It is believed that I murdered Spencer 
Whitehurst. Wilson believes it — the poor old mother 
believes it. Do you, Gorham ? ” 

I do not !'* 

“ But you must, you must ! — by heaven, you shall be- 
lieve it ! Wl>o else could have done it ? Say, Gorham, 
who else could have done it ?” and the wild frenzy came 
back to his eyes as he laid his feverishly hot hands on 
the lawyer’s shoulders, and compelled him to gaze 
squarely into his face. 

“ I do not know what to believe yet, Gregory ; but 
remember that no man is called on to criminate himself. 
I want you to sleep. Sleep all night and come back to 
me to-morrow, when you can tell me whatever you want 
me to know.” 

“ What need ! You know all now ! You know that 
Gregory Kendall is suspected of Spencer Whitehurst’s 
murder. Are you lawyer enough to save your old-time 
fag from a broken neck, Hugh ? ” 

Ghastly as was the joke, ghastlier still was the face of 
him who made it. 

“Gregory,” said Mr. Gorham, sternly, “I positively 
refuse to allow you to tell me anything to-night. You 
must take time.” 

“Yes,” said the suspected man, slowly. “Give me 
time ; that will be best. Sleep ! Oh, I want to sleep, 


A STOLEN’ SECRET. 


II 


for ever and for ever ! Where ? Here ! May I stay 
here, Gorham ? ” 

“ Here ! Why, Greg, what would your wife think ? ” 

“ My wife ? Who ? — Kate ? I suspect she has plenty 
to think about. Go home to her ! ” His head dropped 
heavily on his shaking hands, and a somber silence 
brooded in the dusky room. Presently he sighed, and, 
rising, he took up his hat wearily, and, holding out his 
hand to Mr. Gorham, said gravely : “You are right. I 
will go home. Go to Catherine. She will need me. 
Good-by, and God bless you ! ” 

Then Gregory Kendall went out into the lamp-lighted 
streets, and, walking hurriedly along, was soon at his own 
door. Fitting his latch-key into it, he let himself in 
quietly. 

His hand trembled as he laid it upon the handle of his 
wife’s sleeping-room, and, bowing his head upon his 
breast as he stood there, he sent a silent petition upwards 
to the seat of mercy. 

“ Forgive her. Lord ; she knew not what she did. I 
swore to honor and protect her until death did us part. 
Honor her I cannot ! Protect her ?- Yes. Even if 
needs be with the last drop of blood in these miserable 
veins. A life for a life ! What then ? Surely, now, 
death could hav^e no sting, save for Roser — lily-pure, 
snow-white, baby Roser. God help us all ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 

A STOLEN SECRET. 

T he longer Mr. Gorham pondered over the incoher- 
ence, the horror-stricken aspect and the hysterical ner- 
vousness of the man who had just left him, the darker 
became the mystery of Spencer Whitehurst’s taking off. 

Judging upon general principles, the incoherence, the 
horror and the hysterical nervousness that had so un- 
manned Gregory Kendall would have been natural 
enough to a a finely-strung nervous organization under 
the awful shock of a first and terrible guiltiness. But, 


12 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


judging from his own previous knowledge of the man's 
character, they were not natural. 

Refined, sensitive, high-toned, Gregory Kendall would 
never causelessly have wounded the meanest thing that 
crawled, but with all his refined sensitiveness there had 
been about him, as a boy, a dogged resistance to injustice 
and a cool determination to protect his honor from 
assault of any description. That had made Mr. Gor- 
ham’s own position of champion at school a sinecure, 
save in cases of great disparity of size and muscle. Mr. 
Gorham believed that, if Gregory had seen cause to kill 
Spencer Whitehurst, he would have done it openly, taking 
no advantage of him and have borne the consequences 
manfully. Believing this, he was mentally much per- 
turbed over Gregory’s strange conduct. The case inter- 
ested him deeply, and he resolved to watch it : abso- 
lutely refusing to be retained for the prosecution, he 
awaited further developments. 

Gregory was to return to him the next morning. 
Would it be to give him a full and truthful account of 
this whole dark affair ? He doubted it. He would not 
press the matter, he resolved, but would wait patiently 
for that full and free statement without which he could 
do nothing in the way of help or rescue. He was not 
much surprised that the next morning did not bring Gre- 
gory ; nor the next, nor the next. So completely had he 
lost sight of his old school-fellow in the fifteen years pre- 
vious to Gregory’s sudden and startling reappearance, 
that he knew it would be necessary to make inquiry 
before he could discover the location of Mr. Kendall’s 
business house or dwelling. Not caring to draw atten- 
tion toward his unfortunate old fag by the slightest indi- 
cation that he, a prominent criminal lawyer, was at this 
significant juncture keeping his eye upon him as a sus- 
pected man, he would not even try to discover his where- 
abouts. 

In the mean while Wilson, the detective, patiently and 
perseveringly bent upon earning his reward, examined 
again and again the scene of the tragedy ; questioned 
again and again any one and every one likely to have 
noticed the in-going or out-coming of visitors to the 
chemist’s office on that ill-fated morning. 


A STOLEN SECRET, 


13 


With the single exception of a well-dressed, modestly 
veiled lady, no one had been seen either to enter or to 
leave the chemist’s office. That was all that questioning 
elicited. But at last his perseverance was rewarded with 
a clew ! Between the morocco cushion and the wood- 
work of the chair in which the chemist had been sitting 
when he met his death, Mr. Wilson discovered a glove ! 
A woman’s dainty kid glove, which he placed in his 
pocket and carried away with him. 

That afternoon found him once more creaking heavily 
up the steep stairway that led to Mr. Gorham’s office, 
bent upon extorting an opinion from the astute jurist, 
whose steps seemed, in Mr. Wilson’s case, at least, typical 
of his own personal inaccessibility. 

Mr. Gorham had plenty of questions to ask him touch- 
ing the murder that was filling the newspapers and 
everybody’s mind and tongue. 

The detective complained, with an injured air, of the 
meager amount of evidence against any one. 

‘‘ After all,” said Mr. Gorham, “ what reason is there 
to suppose that any one killed the chemist .? Why not 
adopt the most reasonable hypothesis and pronounce it a 
suicide ? ” 

But the hypothesis which should deprive Mr. Wilson 
of a thousand dollars was not the most reasonable one in 
his estimation, so he answered very promptly : “Utterly 
out of the question. No weapon discoverable about the 
premises. His own pistols were lying in their case in his 
bureau-drawer, in an upper chamber.” 

Mr. Gorham stroked his long mustache meditatively, 
but still did not volunteer the much desired opinion. 

So Mr. Wilson resumed : 

“ This morning I found something that, under any 
other circumstances, might lead up to something. But 
as it is, it goes for little or nothing,” and he carelessly 
flung the glove upon tlie lawyer’s desk. 

Only a woman’s glove ! Delicate of color, soft of 
texture, redolent of a perfume so subtle yet so decided, 
it might have been waved from Araby the blest. 

Another voiceless witness, the lawyer mused, smooth- 
ing the pliant kid upon his fingers as he carefully noted 
the number. “ Six and three-quarters ! Not too small 


14 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


for Gregory’s slender hand, nor yet disgracefully large 
for a woman’s hand,” he said to himself. Aloud : “But 
as it is, this goes for little or nothing ! May I ask, Mr. 
Wilson, what you mean by that ? In cases of this sort I 
should suppose the slightest tendril of a clew would go 
for a great deal.’’ 

“ Exactly, counselor : but the late Dr. Spencer White- 
hurst, you see, was counted one of the handsomest men 
and most successful gallants in the city, and it’s probable 
he could have carpeted his office floor with just such 
remembrances as that glove if he’d seen fit to.” 

“ So ? Ah, well then, probably you are right in laying 
so little stress on this clew. In fact, it counts for so lit- 
tle, under such circumstances, that I am going to ask the 
loan of this glove until some time to-morrow. I had no 
acquaintance whatever with the ill-fated gentleman, but 
in the interests of morality I hope you may be able to 
ferret this mystery to the bottom, and ” — smiling blandly 
— “ win your reward.” 

Mr. Wison eyed the jurist suspiciously as he sat there 
curling the fingers of pearl-gray kid about his fingers of 
firm white flesh, never once offering to relinquish posses- 
sion of the perfumed clew. 

“ May I ask, counselor,” he asked, with a nervously 
apologetic cough, “ why, since I can neither beg nor buy 
an opinion of you in this matter, you care to hold on to 
that bit of kid ? ” 

“ Certainly you may ask, my dear fellow, and I will 
answer most truthfully. The color of this kid strikes me 
as a beautiful novelty. I am rather fastidious in the 
matter of my own gloves, and, if it is possible to find 
this shade in my number, I shall certainly become the 
happy possessor of a pair like it.” 

As it was no secret that the great criminal lawyer was 
one of the most fastidiously elegant men about town, Mr. 
Wilson had to accept the explanation and loan the kid 
glove for the required length of time, saying : 

“ No harm can come of it, I suppose.” 

“ Upon my honor, none shall,” said Mr. Gorham, but- 
toning the glove into his pocket ; mentally adding, “ At 
least, to Gregory Kendall.” 

Five or six days after that first tempestuous inter- 


A STOLEN SECRET. 


15 


view, Gregory Kendall once more entered the lawyer’s 
office. 

It was evident, at a first glance, that the man had mas- 
tered himself. Aside from the deadly pallor of his com- 
plexion, and the look of patient suffering in his large 
eyes, there was nothing to denote the awful agonies of 
horror, doubt and dying trust through which his tried 
soul had passed since their last meeting. He looked as 
if, having endured all that a man can endure, nothing 
could ever arouse or shake him again. He seemed to 
have aged and to have wearied of the great burden of 
his existence, which, nevertheless, he was resolved to 
bear with quiet, manly patience. Even his voice sounded 
tired as he said, extending a thin, hot hand : 

“ I am afraid I made a terrible fool of myself the other 
day, Gorham. I am better now. At least, I promise 
you not to treat you to any more ‘ facial gymnastics,’ or 
‘ private theatricals.’ I’ve just sent my wife and little 
one down to Medway to her father. He is reported as 
being quite low, and I thought the trip would benefit 
Kate and the child. So I’m on your hands for the even- 
ing. Come, I’ve been knocked up with a neuralgic at- 
tack for the past four or five days. Kept my room ac- 
cording to orders, so have fallen behind the times. 
What is the latest news — about — ” His voice died 
away in a husky whisper. 

“ Almost absolutely nothing,” said the lawyer. “ I am 
inclined to think it was a suicide,” he added, with a 
steady glance fixing Gregory. 

“ You are not. You want to hurry me up in my con- 
fession. Time enough. Wait until I’m apprehended,” 
Gregory answered, returning the gaze with one of abso- 
lute resolution. 

“ Don’t make a fool of yourself, Greg. Wilson did 
make a discovery yesterday, which amounted to so little 
that I have borrowed his discovery for my own private 
uses. By-the-way, you used to be something of a dandy 
yourself. What would you call that color ? This is 
what Wilson found, and hopes to work up into a clew. Is 
it mauve or icru., or which of the new colors ? ” 

With apparently no deeper interest in life than the 
matching of that odd glove, the great criminal lawyer 


i6 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


brought the dainty thing to view, and held it out for 
Gregory’s inspection, watching him keenly beneath his 
drooping lids all the while. 

White, livid, with his mouth twitching convulsively, 
the suspected man sat gazing at the glove like one spell- 
bound. But his hard won composure did not desert him 
even yet. 

“What,” he asked, in a strangely calm voice, “is this 
discovery likely to lead up to ? ” 

“ It is calculated to divert suspicion from you and 
fasten it upon some woman. But the color, my boy, the 
color ! ” 

“ Hang the color ! ” cried Gregory, losing control of 
himself, in one burst of wretchedness. “ It is blood- 
color ! I see no color but blood ! There is no color but 
blood ! I breathe blood ! smell blood ! drink blood ! 
Sleeping or waking it is blood ! blood ! blood ! ” 

And like one pursued he fled from the lawyer’s pres- 
ence. 

Calling his ofiice-boy to have a charge of things, 
Mr. Gorham seized his hat and immediately started 
in pursuit, determined to keep the half-crazed man in 
view. 

Keeping Gregory in view, himself remaining on the 
opposite side of the street, Mr. Gorham maintained his 
own leisurely gait, until suddenly, whisking through a 
small wicket-gate appertaining to a modest little cottage 
away on the outskirts of the town, Gregory Kendall 
passed through the door without ceremony, and Mr. 
Gorham knew he was at home. 

Slowly making the circuit of the block before crossing 
over, he too passed into the cottage without ceremony, 
for he had Gregory’s word for it that Mrs. Kendall was 
out of town, and he did not care to have any servant 
that might be about the premises cognizant of his 
visit. 

He found himself in a small carpeted hall from which 
doors opening on either side gave entrance into the 
various apartments of the house. Pausing irresolute, 
scarcely knowing how to proceed, now that he had in- 
vaded Gregory’s castle, the lawyer was on the point of 
calling about for his host, when he was attracted by ^ 


A STOLEN- SECRET. 


^7 


heavy fall on the floor in a room to his right, towards 
which he proceeded without further ceremony, and 
pushed open the door. 

Prone upon the floor lay Gregory Kendall. Crushed 
beneath him in his fall was a woman’s dress of soft gray 
pongee, the contents of its pocket having evidently just 
been emptied by the unhappy man before consciousness 
left him. A pan of freshly ignited charcoal showed the 
lawyer what Gregory’s intention had been — to burn these 
things — but before his task had been accomplished the 
deadly fumes of the charcoal had overpowered him. 

Mr. Gorham’s first care was to extinguish the pan of 
charcoal, his next to fling the windows up ; then he 
approached the fallen man, and, carefully noting his sur- 
roundings, knew by a flash of inspiration why Gregory 
Kendall’s soul had been shaken to its center by the kill- 
ing of Spencer Whitehurst. 

From the deep pocket of the soft gray pongee it was 
evident the articles strewn about^had just been extracted 
— a tiny silver-mounted, single-barreled pistol, bearing 
upon the name-plate, “ S. W.” ; the beginning of a torn 
letter, addressed to “My lost idol”; the mate of the 
glove then in Mr. Gorham’s possession ; and a delicate 
cambric handkerchief, perfumed with the same delicate 
perfume that pervaded the glove, and marked “ Catherine 
Kendall.” 

Quite sure that there was no longer any danger from 
the charcoal, Mr. Gorham softly replaced the window as 
he had found it, and stole noiselessly away. 

“ I came to comfort him,” he said, as he once more 
stood upon the street ; “but God help' him ! It would 
be but sorry comfort for him to know that I have stolen 
his hideous secret from him. He will recover from his 
swoon presently, and then he will finish his somber task, 
completing the holocaust whereon he will offer up, poor 
boy, along with those mute witnesses of crime, all of joy 
and trust and love life held for him.” 

The next morning more than one blank wall about the 
city was placarded with a strangely sensational para- 
graph touching the Whitehurst murder. It read thus : 
“ It seemed strange that the boasted vigilance and astute- 
ness of our detective force should be so completely 


i8 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


inadequate to trace the murder of our late eminent and 
popular citizen, Dr. Spencer Whitehurst. Is it not known 
that Dr. Whitehurst, suddenly, and considerably to the 
commercial injury of a certain person, who shall be 
nameless, opened the drug-store on the corner of Cherry 
and Fleet streets? Avarice made the first Cain — why 
not this one ? A hint to the wise, written in the interest 
of social security by a law-abiding citizen.” 

Mr. Gorham read this placard in common with half 
the town. 

“By Heaven!” he muttered, turning away from the 
perusal of it with a grinding motion of his heel upon the 
stone pavement. “ This is another phase of his insanity. 
I will save him from himself, from the clutches of the 
law, and from her !" 

“Called away on pressing business,” was the announce- 
ment that stared every one in the face from Mr. Gor- 
ham’s office-door for the next four or five days. 

But of all those who, after climbing the steep stairs to 
consult the jurist, faced this disappointment with more 
or less of philosophical endurance, there was none so 
keenly disappointed or so unphilosophical over Mr. 
Gorham’s absence as Wilson, the detective, who went 
away, muttering, after his third fruitless climb : 

“ There is no use wasting any more time in this direc- 
tion. I’ll make out my affidavit for Gregory Kendall’s 
arrest at once ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

EXPATRIATED. 

T here is no use arguing the point any longer, 
my dear fellow. There is but one way out of 
this whole miserable business, and that one way is 
— expatriation. Having just been pulled through as small 
a loophole as a man ever got through neck-whole, one 
would naturally expect to find you perfectly docile, and 
altogether reasonable about any after-matter, upon 
which must depend the final issue, after all. I scarcely 
think you have been in a frame of mind to realize how 


£XPA TRIA TED. 


19 


near that womanish white throat of yours has been to 
exehanging its fastidious silken ties for a hempen cravat. 
And all through your own insane folly ! ” Mr. Gorham 
wound up, looking steadily into Gregory Kendall’s 
warm face. 

A look of sullen despair was all the response the 
lawyer received ; so, smoothing the long, curling ends 
of his mustache fiercely for a few seconds of meditation, 
he proceeded with his lecture : 

“You have done everything to excite, rather than 
divert, suspicion. All my unprofessional maneuvring 
has almost been set at naught after all. You have made 
me wonder at the strength of your hold upon my alfec- 
tions, so absurdly have you acted in this matter. Wilson 
has his spies well paid. Your own servants, I doubt not, 
are among them. How else has it gotten to his hearing, 
that your wife called in her family physician to consult him 
regarding your sanity ? or that you sent her and your 
child out of the city in half an hour’s notice ?” 

“ Mrs. Kendall was summoned by telegraph to her 
father’s death-bed three days ago,” said Gregory, with 
dignity. 

“ I am glad to hear it,” was the lawyer’s heartless re- 
joinder. “ That will simplify matters.” 

“ For whom ? ” 

“All of us.” 

The settled misery in the face of his companion, the 
apathetic droop of his slender boyish form touched 
whatever of heart-long familiarity with tales of crime 
and sufferings of criminals may have left in the breast 
of one of the city’s first criminal lawyers, and infused 
genuine feeling into his next words, and a slight warmth 
into one of the coldest, calmest, most deliberate voices 
that ever badgered a witness or crushed an opposing 
counsel with the force of a dam’s living ice-floe. 

“ Forget that I am a lawyer, Gregory,” he said. “Try 
to see in me only the old-time friend of ‘ white taw ’ 
and ‘china alley’ days. When you were my willing 
little fag, and I was your champion against aggressors of 
every stripe, you followed my bidding blindly then. I 
ask you, for your own sake, to do as much now. Say 
whether you are willing to follow my friendly counsel as 


20 


THE SILENT WETNESS. 


imquestioningly as if circumstances had compelled you 
to submit to my legal advice.” 

“What do you want of me ? Speak slowly and put it 
very plainly. I feel like an old, old man, who has lived 
a century — outlived everything worth living for — whose 
memory concerning yesterday and to-day is weak and 
treacherous. When you speak rapidly, I grow dizzy in 
the effort to follow you,” Gregory answered. 

Mr. Gorham regarded the unhappy man with a keenly 
observant look, then asked : “ What is your last distinct 
recollection since our taking the train for a run down to 
my mother’s place ? ” 

“ That was the evening after the very day that Kale 
left me.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I remember the stopping of the train at a water-tank 
in the woods, and your getting off with me, and telling 
me to remain there quietly until you should come back 
for me ; then you sprang back to the train, and with a 
shriek of the locomotive, and a rush and a clatter, I found 
myself deserted, as I believed, by the last friend I had 
on earth. I remember that the old tank man was very 
good to me, when I told him I had been taken suddenly 
ill and had gotten off to take the first down train back 
home. I think he did not find it hard to believe. He 
took me straightway to his little cabin, and gave up his 
own bed to me. I threw myself on it and seemed to fall 
at once into a blessed life-giving, care-killing sleep, and 
yet I seem never to have lost the mournful sound of the 
wind sighing through the branches of the great trees that 
crowded about the little hut. And I remember watching 
the long black shadows creep stealthily from tree trunk 
to tree trunk at the day wore away, and fancied they 
looked like black-robed nuns gliding through the forest 
aisles to vespers ; but the sun went down and the 
shadows deepened into the blackness of a starless night, 
and the old tank man built a huge fire in the hut, and we 
had no other light. Then more shadows came creeping 
about me. His and mine only you will say, but they 
fitted grotesquely about the hut as the flames flickered or 
flared, coming closer to me, gliding far from me like 
shadowy ghosts sent by him to torture me. Then you 


EXP A TRIA TED. 


21 


came back, and God bless you for it, Hugh, and since 
then — since then — Hugh ! I wonder if I am going 
crazy ?” 

With this question there came into the speaker’s hag- 
gard eyes a look of the most pitiful bewilderment, as if 
his overtaxed brain vainly essayed to grapple some sud- 
denly presented new and complex problem. 

And, indeed, the problem of Gregory Kendall’s future 
was most likely to prove both new and complex. 

“ Tut, man ! ” says the lawyer, with breezy cheerful- 
ness, “ morbid fancies born of morbid sensibilities, bred 
in a morbid brain ! ” Nothing more and nothing worse ? ” 

The evidence of brain weakness on the part of his com- 
panion did not, however, escape the penetration of the 
lawyer, for it was in consequence of such evidence that 
he said, speaking very slowly and very distinctly : 

“ We will put you in the third person for the sake of 
convenience, Gregory, while I state your position and 
my desires. You will please give me your best attention 
and correct me if I make a mis-statement. To begin 
then : Gregory Kendalbhaving in the heat of passion — ” 

“ In defense of honor what will not a person do ? ” 
Gregory suddenly ejaculated, with fierce impatience. 

“‘Person ’is a noun of the common gender, Greg,’’ 
Mr. Gorham hazarded, and was sorry of his experiment, 
immediately adding, soothingly : “ My dear Kendall, you 
are alone with your best friend. This is not the court- 
house, nor my office, nor your confessional. Conse- 
quently you can permit my statement of your case to 
proceed without any interpolations. To resume.’’ 

“ Gregory Kendall, a young man of unimpeachable 
character heretofore, pacific in disposition, generous in 
impulse, universally pronounced one of the best of fel- 
lows, having, in the heat of passion or in the heat of 
jealousy — ’’ 

(Poor Gregory, for his life he could not have repressed 
that soul-wrung groan.) 

“ Did you speak ? — am I wrong ? — 

“ No. Or — in a heat of the devil’s own kindling — 
having taken the life of his one-time friend, Spencer 
Whitehurst, came to me, his life-time friend, Hugh Gor- 
ham, for legal advice in the straits to which his own 


22 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


rashness and the blood-thirsty zeal of his victim’s friends 
had reduced him. 

“ I, positively refusing to engage in this matter pro- 
fessionally, have yet allowed myself to become deeply 
interested in the case, and now amour propre is involved 
in carrying it to a successful issue. The judgment of 
his friends dictating a short incarceration in a lunatic 
asylum, I persuaded Gregory Kendall to accompany me 
on a visit to my mother’s country residence, and there 
found no difficulty in getting an honest certificate of 
lunacy from the local physicians. Whereupon, in view 
of my life-long affection for this young man, I took it 
upon myself to convey him, in person, to the asylum 
decided upon. 

“ There are certain ever-recurring crises in human 
affairs, Gregory — hitches, if one may so speak — caused 
by the friction of opposing forces, through which human 
ingenuity (not even a lawyer’s) is always adequate to 
pilot one safely. It is in such emergencies that that 
admirable agency, called special Providence, comes so 
happily into play. To put my friend into the asylum 
would be easy enough, armed with a proper certificate, 
but how long to leave him there, and what to do with 
him when I must take him out, were perplexing con- 
siderations. 

“Special Providence kindly relieved me of my per- 
plexities in this wise : 

“ On the same train that was bearing Gregory Kendall 
and myself to the asylum was a man, having in charge a 
bona fide lunatic destined for the same asylum. Wdiat 
more natural than that the two keepers should fall into 
discourse touching their two charges ? His, I found to 
be a young foreigner, his fellow-clerk, who, coming to 
this country a year or two back, and failing to reap the 
golden harvest anticipated by every foreigner, had 
gradually fallen into a melancholy madness, the result of 
loneliness, home-sickness and extreme poverty. His 
keeper, having no interest in him beyond the humane 
desire to see a friendless, moneyless stranger safely 
sheltered in the asylum, was thrown into a paroxysm of 
impatient despair at an accident to the train which 
threatened some hours’ detention. ‘ It would be impos- 


£XPA TRIA TED. 


n 


sible,* he said, ‘for him to get back to the city in time 
for a wedding at which he was to stand best man.' I 
pitied the young fellow’s disappointment. I was em- 
ployed in the same business, bound for the same asylum. 
Why should I not take charge of both lunatics (both 
docile victims of melancholia), and allow him to return 
by the down-train, which would pass us in an hour at 
furthest ? I proposed it to him. He seized my offer 
with transports of gratitude, and transferred all the neces- 
sary papers to my keeping as eagerly as if the down-train 
was actually in sight. We dropped him at the next 
station. I dropped Gregory Kendall at a watering 
station. Arrived at the asylum, 1 entered the foreigner 
with the papers made out for Gregory Kendall. Perhaps 
my conscience was none too tender. I have got Gregory 
Kendall safely incarcerated. I want Gregory Kendall to 
leave here en route for South America this very night. 
One would naturally expect Gregory Kendall to be the 
last man to bring forward an objection.” 

“ I only ask for one interview with my wife and to hold 
my baby once more in my arms.” 

“ You only ask to slip your neck into the noose again ? 
Your Catherine, incomparable as she is in your eyes, 
is, after all, only a woman, and the best of them can 
scarcely be called trustworthy in a matter of life and 
death.” 

“You do not know Catherine Kendall.” 

“My dear Kendall, do not force me to the conclusion 
that, after all, I have put the wrong man in the asylum. 
Discredited, suspected, watched, it is utterly insane for 
you to think of going back to the city. I should strongly 
advise against any attempt to see your wife. I should 
even advise her being left under the impression for 
awhile that you are actually in the asylum. For the 
depression incident upon such a sorrow will divert sus- 
picion from this other matter. As for the rest, leave it 
all to me. I will be her friend for your sake. I shall 
see you safely launched fora fresh start in life. The 
world is a big place, and perseverance and uprightness 
will tell in any quarter of it. Make for yourself a new 
home and a new name ; then come back for the wife and 
the little one.” 


24 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


“Let it be as you say, Gorham. You’ve been a good 
friend to me.” 

“ And now I advise you to try to get some sleep. 
Though, on second thoughts, those dazed eyes, with your 
hollow cheeks and bristling beard, will help you along in 
your new character of a clergyman in search of health.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” he added to himself, as Gregory gladly 
left the room to be alone, if not to sleep. “ He was a 
handsome dog before he fell into this trouble ! Young, 
and just beginning life with the fairest prospects of suc- 
cess. Is she worth it ? ” 

That evening, only a little while before the hour at 
which the good ship Alhambra^ westward bound, was 
advertised for departure, a plainly-dressed, quiet-looking 
personage, with close-clipped hair and clean-shaven face 
(having quite the air of a clergyman in search of health, 
by reason of his full suit of black, his general meagerness, 
and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses that protected his eyes) 
crossed the crowded gangway with a languid, almost 
feeble step. 

He looked neither to the right nor to the left of him. 
Why should he? There was not a hand there outstretched 
in farewell to him. Not a single “ God-speed” uttered in 
his behalf. Not a tear nor a tremor for his out-going 
to the dangers of the deep. As one set apart, he stood 
for awhile, after coming aboard, watching the throbbing 
life-tide pulsing round him, while a great hunger, rather 
than a recognized hope, surged over him for one familiar 
face — one kindly pair of eyes to turn towards him, some 
one to bless him with a look — only a look ! Oh, the de- 
solation of that lonely exile — oh, the hunger of his tired 
soul ! 

Slowly, as if loath to slip her moorings from the 
friendly harbor to face the unknown perils of the voyage, 
the mighty ship swung loose ; sigh after sigh escaped her 
iron lungs, as though in contemplation of the weary 
miles to be traversed ere rest could be found. Mercilessly 
the great wheels revolved, and amid fluttering of hand- 
kerchiefs, waving hats, and sobbing farewells, the voyage 
was begun. 

“ God have mercy upon me an exile!” groaned Gregory 
Kendall, and turning listlessly toward the saloon, he en- 


QUITE A BUSINESS WOMAN. 


25 


tered the stateroom that had been bespoken some days 
before for a Mr. Maurice Raymond, and shut himself in 
for the night. 

Not until the vessel was fairly in motion did the oc- 
pant of a cab on shore heave a sigh of relief and order 
the driver back to his hotel. 

“ Poor fool, I am sure of him now,” said Mr. Gorham. 
“ I could not be before, such seemed his insane longings 
to see that wife of his, who, after all, has been the cause of 
all his misery. I wonder if she or I will ever again see 
Gregory Kendall ? It would not take much to make him 
commit suicide. God speed you, poor fellow! I pity 
you and all Benedicts ! And now that glove must be 
matched.*’ 


CHAPTER IV. 

QUITE A BUSINESS WOMAN. 

F or several weeks after the departure of Gregory Ken- 
dall, Mr. Gorham enjoyed comparative immunity 
from any excitement likely to curtail his rest or impair 
his appetite. 

True, he had on hand his usual complement of evil- 
doers, A few novices in crime, just starting on the road 
to ruin ; a few hardened sinners of communistic per- 
suasion, who insisted practically upon an evener distribu- 
tion of this world’s gain by violent appropriations of their 
neighbor’s goods ; a few others of like stripe, but those he 
regarded as matters of course. So many cases appealing 
to his brains alone (and Mr. Gorham’s brains were simply 
a splendid piece of mechanism that could bear any 
amount of steady strain without incommoding its own) 
making draughts upon his legal acquirements only, where- 
as in the case of Gregory Kendall there had been an in- 
fusion of the emotional which had greatly complicated 
matters. 

Gregory Kendall had once been to him “ little Greg,” 
his most faithful, patient fag and ardent admirer. Ad- 
miring him with unquestioning, undoubting acceptance 
pf his perfections (such acceptance as can be accorded 


26 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


only by the small boy to the big boy of his adoration), 
glad to do his bidding, proud to wear his yoke. 

In return he had been little Greg’s faithful and sturdy 
protector against abuse and domination from other boys. 
Concerning his own impositions upon the boy’s good- 
nature and childish muscle — that was a matter entirely 
between himself and little Greg. 

This is why, when Gregory Kendall had come to him 
for help, he had felt all the old feeling of championship 
stirring within him. And when, fully believing that the 
wretched man was purposely trying to bring suspicion 
upon his own head to shield his wife, he had gone to him 
and almost coerced him into leaving town with him, he 
was fully resolved to befriend him to the best of his 
ability. 

To the peaceful security of his mother’s country home 
he had carried little Greg,” treating him with the 
consideration due an honored guest ; gradually suggest- 
ing to him the advisability of leaving the country for 
a while, when Gregory forced the Whitehurst subject 
upon him. 

“You want to send me out of harm’s way,” said Greg- 
ory, looking at him with grateful eyes. “ You want me 
to make a fresh start in life ; to outlive, if I can, the 
blackly wrathful moment when, passion nerved, I pointed 
a deadly weapon at a breast pulsing with youth and hope 
and all the happy aspirings of fresh young manhood. I 
have laid low the pride of a mother’s heart. I have 
blotted out the glory of existence for the man I once 
called friend ! I have let all the furies of hell into my 
own ungoverned soul ! Yes ! Let me go away and for- 
get that I ever had a home, a wife, a child ! ” 

This was Gregory Kendall’s confession ; made as he 
walked by his friend’s side among the roses and labur- 
nums of Mrs. Gorham’s garden. 

In his soul the lawyer believed it to be a lie. A noble, 
self-abnegatory, unselfish lie ! But none the less a lie. 
In his answer he accepted the lie for truth, and acted in 
accordance, as we have seen. 

Having shipped Gregory out of harm’s way, Mr. Gor- 
ham rather wondered why he could not dismiss all 
thought of the whole miserable affair, as he was in the 


QUITE A BUSINESS WOMAN. 


27 


habit of dismissing all cases from his mind immediately 
after bringing them to an issue, successful or otherwise. 
But somehow or other, this case was a curiously compli- 
cated affair, involving legal advice, friendly sympathy, 
and the tenderest memories of his boyhood. He was 
rather astonished than pleased to find his heart in such a 
good state of preservation. 

Mr. Gorham was by no means a universal favorite in 
society. He was a gentleman in that sense of the word 
which supplements rectitude of principle with a courtesy 
and consideration of manner that appear to be dying out 
of the world ; although a man of such vigorous pur- 
poses, such ample and various store of thought, such a 
grasp, as it were, of life’s sternest realities, might well 
have been allowed to dispense with fervor and smooth- 
ness and ceremony. As regards matters of religious 
faith, he was a skeptic to the very core. But allowing to 
others that freedom of thought he claimed for himself, 
he never thrust his opinions offensively forward. 

He formed sadly few social ties, which accounts, per- 
haps, for the tenacious hold of those formed before his 
character had crystalized into the hardness and bril- 
liancy of his latter manhood. 

Almost as a matter of course, his isolation engendered 
a certain self-considering deliberation that had rather an 
irritating effect upon others. Having outlived the furious 
heat and hurry of early youth, deliberation in all matters, 
from the great matter of passing a legal opinion to the 
little matter of shaping a whisker (or matching a glove), 
was a luxury not likely to be foregone. 

He was happy in having reached a sort of plateau upon 
life’s steep hillside, where he could rest serenely a little 
while before attempting those highest heights (so fair and 
seductive when seen through the purple haze of distance) 
and look back with half-contemptuous pity upon the 
way-worn many struggling up the same steeps he had 
surmounted (mountains to them, hillocks now to him), 
stumbling where he had stumbled, abusing Fate as a 
stumbling-block just as he had abused her in the long 

ago- . . . , 

He was unhappy in having put behind him in that 
struggling ascent the sunny years whose typical virtues 


28 


THE SILENT ^FITNESS. 


are a sublime certainty of success, a grand scorn of ap- 
pearances, and a lofty indifference to those humdrum 
cares and observances, which are so essential to the 
physical make-up of man or woman on the wane. 

Thus it was, that with all his great reputation and 
fullness of occupation, Mr. Gorham would never neglect 
the elegant minutice. of a finished toilet ; and on the 
morning in question, having paid fitting attention to the 
adjustment of his full glossy beard, he was contempla- 
tively paring the perfect nails of his long, slender fingers 
with the serene deliberation of a man who did not own 
allegiance even to the hours. 

Contrary to all precedent, his office-boy entered the 
room while he was still thus occupied, and abruptly ex- 
tended towards him a small envelope addressed to him- 
self in a style of chirography bold and yet womanish, and 
wholly unfamiliar to him. 

“ Why do you thrust that upon me here ? ” Mr. Gor- 
ham asked, sharply. “ Put it with my mail matter in the 
usual place. It shall have my attention in business 
hours, not before.” 

“ She said she wurn’t to go back without an answer, 
sir.” 

“She? Who?” 

“White gal down-stairs a-waitin’.” 

Thus importuned, Mr. Gorham opened the envelope 
and glanced at the signature first, to discover who might 
be his urgent correspondent. There, in the half-effemi- 
nate, half-manly letters of the superscription, he read, 
“Catherine E. Kendall.” 

“ The devil ! ” muttered the lawyer. “ I am in for it,' 
I suppose. She could not wait and let me do things my 
own way. I thought she was good for another month in 
the country. These women ! these women ! I would 
rather have forty cut-throats, burglars and forgers to deal 
with than one lady playing business — a lady client. 
Apply the word rigidly and see how farcical the juxtapo- 
sition becomes. A client is a hearer, a dependent, one 
who comes to another for protection. They come with 
their pretty impertinences, and it is the advocate who is 
the hearer ; it is they who advise us how to manage their 
affairs for them, How in this case of Gregory’s wife ? 


QUITE A BUSINESS WOMAN. 


29 


Note the charming insolence with which she requests a 
busy man to leave his place of business to call on her at 
her own specified hour of ten. Issuing her mandate with 
just one degree more of suavity than would have been 
necessary in making an appointment with her seamstress 
or hairdresser. If one could answer such a summons 
according to one’s desire, without endangering one’s rep- 
utation as a gentleman, I would respectfully request Mrs. 
Catherine E. Kendall to call on me at my proper place of 
business or take her business to the — ” 

“ She’s a-waitin’, sir, patient as a lam’-pos’,” says the 
office-boy, intruding again just in time to rescue Mr. 
Gorham from a piece of decided rude soliloquy. 

So Mr. Gorham hastily scratched off his acceptance of 
ten o’clock for the requested interview with Gregory 
Kendall’s wife, and putting on his hat, walked around 
the corner to the restaurant where for years he had taken 
his solitary meals with that deliberation, good judgment, 
and tasteful precision that characterized every action of 
Hugh Gorham’s existence. 

Half-past nine o’clock found him on the way to Mrs. 
Kendall’s cottage, with rather a dissatisfied cast of coun- 
tenance. It was one thing (he thought) to rashly saddle 
himself with the wife and child of a supposed lunatic, 
but quite another to be thus peremptorily reminded of 
his new duties by his new encumbrance. If there was 
one thing in this world that could, more readily than 
another, disturb the marvelous equipoise of Mr. Gorham’s 
calm soul, it was the not being permitted to do such 
things as he selected to do at all, exactly in his own 
time and after his own fashion. Born to dominate, he 
had dominated until dictation became an affront. 

“ I must go fully prepared for tears,” he told himself, 
rather spitefully ; “for touching inquiries concerning 
precious Gregory, for effusions of gratitude, feminine 
submission (in words) to the Lord’s will, pathetic inquir- 
ies as to what is to become of her and baby, and the rest 
of it.” 

What right had Mr. Gorham thus presumptuously to 
picture the physical, mental, and moral Catherine Ken- 
dall to himself in such vivid colors, that the total unlike- 
ness of the real woman to the ideal of his own conjuring 


30 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


Struck him in the light of a personal contradiction ? No 
better right that we all have to pre-figure the coming man 
or woman, and to almost invariable pre-figure them as 
incorrectly as he did. 

He had settled in his own mind that he was to sec a 
pallid, fragile, blue-eyed, almost girlish woman. Of great 
reputed beauty he knew her to be. But in her fragile 
form, he suspected a soul as hard and cold as steel. 
For, notwithstanding Gregory’s tardy but explicit avowal 
of murder, the lawyer was not satisfied. Hence he 
looked forward to meeting Gregory’s wife with peculiar 
interest, for he did not believe that woman lived who 
could do so monstrous a thing, and yet wear the guise of 
innocence in her face. The horror of it must have 
stamped itself upon her visage in characters, which to 
him (already suspicious of her) would be legible. No 
doubt she would cling to him in tremulous helplessness, 
as the only guide and counselor left here in this dark 
time. Then, in the blue eyes upraised to supplicate, he 
would surprise the guilt that clouded their innocence. 
This was as he proposed. 

The small parlor into which he was ushered on his 
arrival was prettily but inexpensively furnished, for the 
Kendalls had scarcely more than started well in life when 
their trouble overtook them. 

Seated with his back to the door, the lawyer was 
calmly contemplating a few dust-laden geraniums in the 
parlor window of a house across the street, when the 
door opened and with a quick, imperious forward sweep, 
Catherine Kendall stood before him holding out to him a 
firm, white hand in greeting, looking straight into his 
face with her fearless brown eyes, that were only rescued 
from boldness by an exquisite softness all womanly. He 
stood up and confronted a regal-looking woman, whose 
whole person was built on the generous scale of her large 
white hands. And yet so symmetrical, so easy in every 
motion, so perfectly poised, that absolutely no objection 
could be made to her from an artist’s point of view. 

Of one thing Mr. Gorham felt convinced instantanously: 
He could no more patronize that brown-eyed Juno than 
he could have patronized her queenly prototype in the 
days of her Olympian sovereignty. Of another thing, he 


QUITE A BUSINESS WOMAN. 


31 

also felt convinced : This was just the sort of woman to 
save her own name from scandal by the extreme preven- 
tives of the pistol or the dagger ! 

Her opening remark showed such a nice appreciation 
of her own exactions and his rights in the matter of her 
summons, that he immediately pronounced her that rara 
avis — a reasonable woman. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Gorham,” she said, “ for coming to 
me this morning. I am quite aware that I should have 
gone to you, instead, but under the circumstances I hope 
you will overlook my presumption.” 

“ Do not mention it, my dear madam, I pray. I shall 
be only too happy to serve you in any shape or form,” 
said Mr. Gorham, in utter renunciation of all previous 
expressed theories touching lady clients. “ From my 
boyhood up to the present hour,” he continued, “ Gregory 
Kendall has occupied a very warm place in my affec- 
tions. ” 

“ It was my knowledge of that fact that made me turn 
to you in this very trying time,” Mrs. Kendall resumed, 
in that rich, calm voice which was not the least of her 
many charms. “ It will be better for me to state at once 
and without reservation, Mr. Gorham, why I have re- 
quested this interview. It is now nearly fourweeks since 
I was summoned by telegram to my father’s deathbed. I 
received the telegram while Mr. Kendall was at his place 
of business. On his return home, instead of coming to 
my sitting-room, as was usual with him, he locked him- 
self into his own room, and notwithstanding my most 
piteous appeals to him either to come to me, or allow me 
to enter, I could get no response from him. Finally, I 
wrote on a slip of paper that my father was believed to 
be dying, and my heart would break if I could not go to 
him, and slipped it beneath Mr. Kendall’s door. He 
scrawled on it, ‘ Go, and on his deathbed give him my 
curse for having begotten you for my destruction.’ 

“ Had I not had weary experiences often before of 
Gregory’s frenzies of temper, I would have believed him 
gone mad. But I could not wait then to bring him to 
reason. I hastily packed a few things needful for my- 
self and child, wrote a note to be given to Mr. Kendall 
when he saw fit to emerge from his seclusion, rode by 


32 


THE SILENT WITNESS 


our family physician’s on my way to the depot, request- 
ing him to have an eye upon my husband during my 
absence, and went to my old home just in time to receive 
my father’s farewell blessing and counsel. With the 
desolation of my bereavement fresh upon me, I received 
from my husband a letter as inexplicable in tenor as in- 
sulting in its cold brevity. In it he informs me, without 
assigning motive or excuse, that he has resolved upon a 
trip to South America for the benefit of his health, clos- 
ing with the assertion that it may be years, it may be 
that he will never return to me, giving me your name and 
address as one upon whom I might rely. In fine, Mr. 
Gorham, you see before you a deserted wife. I have not 
sent for you to utter a wail over my suddenly rent home 
happiness. I wish no comment made upon it. I have 
sent for you because I need legal advice. Apart from 
your high reputation, I thought it would be easier for 
me to state the facts of the case to a personal friend of 
my late husband than to an utter stranger.” 

Oh, the ineffable scorn of her eyes and her voice as 
she thus clearly defined her own desolate position ! It 
was as if she flung defiance at a world. 

Mr. Gorham shuddered with a new-born apprehension 
that his handsome incumbrance was like to turn out that 
self-sufficient, altogether abominable thing — a strong- 
minded woman. 

Driven into saying something by the necessity of 
breaking the dead stillness that had fallen upon the air, 
he essayed some sympathetic utterances, which Catherine 
haughtily interrupted. 

“ What this thing is to me,” she said passionately, 
laying her hand on her own breast — “ to me, in my heart, 
my life, and my standing in the world’s eyes, is absolutely 
between myself and my God. Into that no eye shall 
ever penetrate, no lip essay pity or consolation. It was 
necessary for me to tell the truth to some one. I have 
selected you for reasons already given. It remains now, 
Mr. Gorham, for me to ask your best advice as to my 
future movements.” 

‘‘ Let me hope,” said Mr. Gorham, “ that I am not to 
find Mrs. Kendall altogether superior to poor humanity’s 
universal need of sympathy.” 


quite a business woman. 


33 


“ Indeed, no,” she answered, in a softer, gentler voice; 
“ I only wanted to assure you promptly that I did not 
propose to burden you further than dire necessity com- 
pels. I am very lonely, now that my dear father is gone. 
Nor do I know yet if I shall prove equal to all the inde- 
pendent plans I have mapped out for myself in the past 
few bitter weeks. But I will try.” 

Mr. Gorham was silent. He was pondering deeply. 
It was evident that Gregory’s wife was in profound 
ignorance of the fact that upon Gregory rested the 
openly expressed suspicion of Spencer Whitehurst’s mur- 
der. How far would it be wise to probe her real or as- 
sumed innocence and ignorance ? What chords might 
he be cruelly and causelessly touching by cursory 
allusion to the topic of the day ? He was surrounded by 
uncertainties, and must grope his way carefully in the 
dark. It was evident, again, that she was profoundly 
ignorant of his own complicity in her husband’s disap- 
pearance. Her appeal to him for legal advice was made 
independently of any knowledge that she was in a man- 
ner already under his protection. 

Was man ever placed in so trying a position ? thought 
he. 

The gusty opening of the door, and a sudden rush of 
baby feet, accompanied by a sobbing cry of “ Mamma ! 
mamma ! tan’t Wosa have it ? ” created an agreeable 
diversion for the lawyer (who was resolved to see his 
way a little clearer before committing himself in words); 
and Gregory’s baby, hotly pursued by her nurse, rushed 
into Mrs. Kendall’s arms. 

“ What does this mean ? ” said the lady, fixing her 
splendid eyes in cold disapproval upon the nurse. 

“ I left her just for a second, ma’am, and Miss Rosa 
she fell to rummagin’ about in your trunk, what you left 
open, and when I tried to get the glove away from her 
she just screamed and run so fast I could not help her 
getting in here.” 

“ Wosa’s glove! Wosa’s ! Mamma div it to Wosa 
for dolly ! ” cried Rosa, flinging defiance at nurse from 
the stronghold of mamma’s arm. 

‘‘She is right! It is an odd one. You can go. 
Leave the child here.” 


34 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


The nurse disappeared, and Rosa, slackening her 
rigid clasp of dolly and the glove, sighed as if immensely 
relieved, slipped from her mother’s lap on to the rug 
between Mrs. Kendall and the lawyer, and fell to per- 
suading dolly to permit the glove to be drawn helmet- 
wise over her flaxen curls and pug nose. 

In the beginning, the lawyer had regarded this sudden 
intrusion of the maid and child simply as a sample of im- 
perfect control on the part of the mistress; but of late 
odd gloves had taken on a peculiar significance for him; 
and, looking down upon the rug where Gregory’s baby 
played with her doll, he saw, clearly and unmistakably, 
the fellow to the kid glove then in possession of Wilson, 
the detective. How it came to escape destruction at 
Gregory’s hands he was at a loss to understand. But 
he instantly resolved to possess himself of it before leav- 
ing the house. 

Hard man as he was, he looked, in a wonderment of 
horror, from the child playing at mother to the real 
mother. Could this woman have put Spencer White- 
hurst out of the way, and yet bear to look upon a single 
article that must remind her of that black moment ? 
Catherine Kendall’s face was marble in its calm, cold 
repose. 

He resolved to fling one random dart. He was curi- 
ous to discover if it would rebound from a chain-armor 
of absolute soullessness, or strike and rankle in a heart 
of flesh and blood. 

“ I am afraid, madam,” he said, in his most repellant 
voice, ” that I must ask you to allow me to appoint a cer- 
tain day for conference with you concerning your future 
movements, at which time I shall endeavor to advise you 
for your very best interests. To-nay I should be com- 
pelled to give you only divided attention, as I am due in 
half an hour at my office, to meet an urgent engagement 
concerning the melancholy matter that has for the past 
month held agitating sway over a large proportion of our 
citizens. I allude to the mysterious death of the late 
Dr. Spencer Whitehurst. His friends seemed resolved 
to solve the mystery of his taking off, and, although not 
professionally engaged, I am watching the investigation 
with all a lawyer’s zest.” 


QUITE A BUS/ITESS WO MAM. 


3^ 


He had stated a truth. But he repented him of the 
statement. After all she was a woman, and he had flung 
that dart with all his man’s strength. 

Catherine Kendall was looking him keenly in the face 
— white, alert, with an almost savage gleam in her 
splendid brown eyes. 

To cover his remorseful confusion, he stooped and 
raised Gregory’s baby in his arms. In startled amaze- 
ment the little one turned her big blue eyes upon him, 
and the hand that held the fatal glove rested trustingly 
upon his breast. 

The delicate color now so hatefully familiar caught his 
eye and steeled his heart. He muttered a few coaxing 
commonplaces, and, with an awkward embrace, once 
more gave Rosa her liberty. 

“ Shall we say to-morrow, at the same hour, madam ? ” 
he asked, in reference to a second interview. 

“If it suits Mr. Gorham’s convenience,” Catherine 
replied, slightly excelling the lawyer in his chosen atti- 
tude of cold reserve. 

Then he went away ; and after he went away he 
found it harder than ever to fix his mind upon anything 
but the Kendall affairs, to which at the last had been 
added the touching episode of a baby’s clinging hand 
and a baby’s tear-gemmed eyes fixed on him in wonder- 
ing affright. Gregory’s baby was pretty, no doubt ; but 
what was there about her that should make it so hard 
for the busy man of law to forget that velvet touch and 
those starry eyes ? Nothing in little Rosa, only Hugh 
Gorham — dealing by force of circumstances with crime 
and criminals, inured to looking upon hands that were 
red with the life-blood of fellow-creatures, daily essay- 
ing to probe guilty souls with his keen, incisive gaze — 
had held a pure little body in his arms, had gazed into 
crystal-clear, sinless eyes for once, had felt that of such 
was the kingdom of Heaven, and thrilled with the sense 
that himself had been nearer to God while Gregory’s 
baby lay upon his breast. 

While in the house he had just left there went up a 
wail of anguish. Little Rosa weeping and refusing to 
be comforted because of the mysterious disappearance 
of her precious kid glove. 


3 ^ 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


CHAPTER V. 

MR. Gorham’s equipoise again disturbed. 

'^URN shopkeeper ! ” 

1 “ Lay aside conventional prejudice, Mr. Gor- 

ham, and consider which seems to you the more 
independent as well as pleasant occupation. A neat little 
stationer’s shop, with books and pictures and pretty 
things about one, or a musty school-room, filled with 
noisy, unruly children, dominated by insolent, patron- 
izing parents ? As for woman’s only other beaten path, 
sewing for a living, I am disgracefully deficient in that 
divine art. Baby’s aprons are a mystery to me, her 
dresses a stumbling-block, and my own garments are 
fearfully and wonderfully made.” 

Thus airily Gregory Kendall’s wife maintained the 
resolution she had just announced to Mr, Gorham of 
opening a stationer’s establishment for the maintenance 
of herself and child. 

“But the publicity, Mrs. Kendall ! ” he said, looking 
a trifle shocked and disgusted. 

Mrs. Kendall’s firm lips looked very much as if they 
could readily frame the words, “ Hang the publicity ! ” 
but instead she said, very mildly : “ I have thought over 
this matter in all its bearings, Mr. Gorham, and my mind 
is fully made up. In the brief explanation Mr. Ken- 
dall vouchsafed me, he informed me that you had entire 
control of his business affairs, and that I was at liberty 
to call upon you for funds. When can you let me know 
the amount of capital I can command to begin trade 
with ? ” 

Her lip curled perceptibly over the word “trade,” but 
she looked so handsome, so determined, and withal so 
sufficient unto herself, that Mr. Gorham’s mental equi- 
poise was again sadly disturbed. Abandoning all idea 
of further combating her resolution, he sat pulling his 
long mustache reflectively for some little while, thinking, 
maybe, that Gregory had proven a deal more manage- 
able than his wife was likely to prove. 

“ In two weeks,” he said, presently, “ I shall have mas- 


Mr. GORHAM’S EQUIPOISE AGAIN DISTURBED. 37 

tered the details of Gregory’s affairs. At which time I 
shall be able to let you know what funds are at your 
command.” 

Then, with a shade more of interest creeping over his 
coldly handsome face, Gregory’s friend entered his final 
prorest against the objectionable decision of Gregory’s 
wife to turn shopkeeper : 

“ Permit me once more, Mrs. Kendall, as Gregory’s 
oldest and best friend, to protest most earnestly against 
this plan of yours.” 

” Thank you very much, in your friend’s name and in 
mine, Mr. Gorham,” she answered quickly, “ for the 
friendly interest you seem disposed to take in the move- 
ments of the wife whom he has failed, most egregiously, 
to guard from censure or hardships. No doubt you 
would think all the better of me if I were to open a 
.bonnet and ribbon shop ; spend my days trimming flimsy 
hats to adorn flimsy heads ; appeal to the external 
rather than the mental needs of my fellows. I grant you, 
that would be altogether nicer, prettier, and more ortho- 
dox, but, perhaps, you will come to find that I am not 
nice, nor pretty, nor orthodox in everything — what shall 
you do then, drop me ? Leave me to my own evil 
devices ?” 

With an inexpressibly winning smile she waited for his 
answer. 

“ You are aware,” he said, thawed into a warm, an- 
swering smile, “ that the fact of your being an exceed- 
ingly handsome woman rather enhances than detracts 
from the danger of this arrangement.” 

Apparently, this deliberately uttered tribute to her 
beauty was altogether thrown away upon Catherine Ken- 
dall, for with the hauteur of an insulted queen she 
turned the full blaze of her handsome eyes upon him. 

“ Danger ! I recognize none in this plan. If I were 
a pretty little fool your objection might carry some 
weight. Your experience of womankind has, probably, 
been derived from the fashionable salons of those effete 
circles where women are generally conceded weak and 
helpless in direct proportion to their good looks. I fully 
appreciate the fact that I am not destitute of charms 
likely to win attention from your sex. But I warn you 


3 ^ 


THE 3ILENT WITNESS. 


to beware of falling into the same error about me that 
my husband weakly fell into, bringing upon us both all 
this misery and shame and hardship.” 

“ What error ? ” asked the lawyer, gazing with fasci- 
nated surprise upon her flashing eyes, flushed cheeks and 
heaving bosom. He was utterly unable to conjecture 
how he had so aroused her, but that she was thoroughly 
and passionately aroused was unmistakable. 

“ Come,” Catherine said, quite calm again, “ if we are 
to get along comfortably together, and we must, for I 
shall have great and constant need of my legal adviser, I 
must make him acquainted with me, as I see a grow- 
ing distrust in his eyes.” 

Mr. Gorham essayed to interpolate a gallant denial of 
this charge, but with an outward sweep of her large white 
hand she seemed to command his silence and attention. 

“In the first place,” she began, startling him by coolly 
holding up some of his own recent speculations for 
inspection, “ you have been struck by an appearance of 
indecent haste and utter selfishness in my efforts to 
establish myself comfortably. In view of the recent 
rupture of my wedded happiness, I would have been 
more admirable in your eyes had I wept more and 
planned less. Now listen to me. 

“ When I married Gregory Kendall my heart was full 
of sincere affection for him, for no one knows better than 
yourself that his means or worldly position could never 
have won him a wife. I took my marriage vows upon 
me with the honest intention of being the very best wife 
I could be to any man. He knew before he married me 
— knew very well that he would find me altogether unlike 
the typical young lady of the day. With the exception 
of a maiden aunt, I grew up almost entirely without fe- 
male association or influence. Surrounded by a house- 
ful of brothers, and associating freely with the lads who 
attended the boys’ school which father kept, or rather 
which kept us, I grew up in a boyish rather than 
girlish fashion. It is probable that this ungirlish rear- 
ing gave me a dash of freedom and independence not 
to be desired in a wife of a super-sensitive, trebly 
refined man like Gregory Kendall. But I never tried to 
deceive him into thinking I was other or better than my 


MJ?. GORHAM^S EQUIPOISE AGAIaT DISTURBED. 39 

real self, in the days of our long courtship — you know* 
he was one of father’s boys, before he went to the college 
where you and he became such friends. Then, every 
daring thing that I did was bewitching in his eyes ; 
every flippant thing I said, unadulterated wisdom in his 
ears. 

“ I was never afflicted with the girlish vanity of 
making capital of my good looks, and men’s admiration 
has always been to me a thing of course and of insignifi- 
cance. It was not that I changed after marriage that 
things seemed to go so persistently wrong udth Gregory 
and me ; it was rather that I did not change. He 
seemed to expect me all of a sudden to develop certain 
orthodox wifely attributes that w^ould have sat upon me 
as unnaturally as violets from a sunflower stalk ; was 
mildly surprised to find that I was not a sort of rejuven- 
ated copy of his own primly correct mother. 

“ I had been a sort of brevet- queen over father and 
the boys all my life, and I could not at the bidding of an 
Episcopal clergyman doff my crown of sovereignty and 
play the role of meek and loyal subject to my liege. Ah ! 
well, why go on ? Was it my fault that Gregory wooed 
a sunflower and resented its not turning to a violet ? 
Was it my fault that the white-robed conjurer who pro- 
nounced us man and wife did not cry ‘ Presto! 
change ! ’ and eliminate all that was airy and gay and 
dashing in me, leaving me all womanly, all meekness, all 
wifely ? 

“I think, Mr. Gorham, if husband and wife would 
agree in their hearts, as well as before the altar, to take 
each other for better or for worse, the better would be so 
much better, and the worse never too bad to be borne. 

“ Being, then, just the kind of woman I was, you can 
imagine my profound indignation, contempt, and dis- 
gust when I found that the ruling passion of my husband 
seemed to be jealousy, that alert, sleepless, narrow* 
souled jealousy that can feed on its own flavorless imag- 
inings and find aliment in trifles light as air. 

“ I suppose if I had wept womanly tears and begged 
my husband’s pardon for wrongs I had never done him, 
and promised amendment where I had not gone astray, 
he would have soothed me, forgiven me, and magnani- 


4b 


THIl silent witness. 


mously received me back into the place I had done 
nothing to forfeit. But I was no Griselda. When 
accused, it was my wont to fling his foolish accusations 
back at him in wrath, or laugh them to scorn, just as a 
dark or careless mood happened to be upon me. 

“ I wish it had been otherwise, for I loved my husband, 
and I did want to make him happy. But the leopard 
could not change her spots. And now that Gregory’s 
ungoverned rashness has brought things to the pres- 
ent miserable crisis, am I to sit in sackcloth and ashes 
bewailing a catastrophe that I scarcely even understand, 
while baby and I grow ragged and hungry ? ” 

“Your mother?” the lawyer ventured, thinking to 
advise Catherine to seek the shelter of the home nest 
until this storm should have blown over. 

“ Is dead,” she answered. 

“ And all those brothers ? ” 

“ Have wives, who would scowl at me for a woman who 
(it matters not how unwittingly) had created a scan- 
dal. No, no, I am not afraid of work, Mr. Gorham. In 
the happiest days of my married life (and the days 
were not all unhappy, in spite of peevish, jealous exac- 
tions on one side, and angry, indiscreet resentment on 
the other) I used to talk of winning laurels as a writer. 
I have had many a girlish production honored by edi- 
torial acceptance. Now, in my loneliness, that dream 
has come back upon me, and, like Banquo’s ghost, it 
will not down. This is why I have decided in favor 
of a book-store over a ribbon-shop. It will leave me 
more leisure for the real work of my life, for you know 
the demand for reading-matter is not that insatiable hun- 
ger that new bonnets and fresh ribbons beget, and I 
shall live in an atmosphere of good books favorable to 
the production of good ideas. 

“ As for Gregory ! I did not fail him in the past, and I 
will not in the future. As I have borne with him in petty 
outbreaks, so will I bear with him yet a while longer. But 
shall I let this mad act of his mar all the best possibilities 
of my life as it must inevitably mar his ? I shall have 
neither time, inclination, nor temptation any more for the 
happy frivolities I used to think meant life. As a bread- 
winner for myself and my child I shall take my place in 


MR. GORHAM'S EQUIPOISE AGAIN DISTURBED. 4 1 

the ranks of the workers and maintain it in spite of my 
inconvenient sex, my undesirable good looks and con- 
ventional prejudices, asking therein no better safeguard 
than every woman’s truest and best safeguard under all 
circumstances — her own self-respect. 

‘‘ And now ” — she passed her hand wearily across her 
brow and heaved a long sigh of relaxed tension — 
“ there is but one more point to be touched upon. I 
know I have tired you, but this long explanation was ab- 
solutely necessary to your rightful understanding of my 
position. It is not my custom to be so wordy in com- 
plaint. It is easy to lose one’s-self in a large city like 
this, and as Gregory Kendall’s deserted wife I should 
like to be lost sight of. You will not find me here after 
this week, but” (and by a manifest effort she cast aside 
her somber voice and manner) “ whenever Mr. Hugh 
Gorham, Counsellor and Attorney-at-Law, may be in 
need of ‘ legal cap ’ or any other article in the small sta- 
tioner or bookseller’s line, I shall be happy to serve him 
at my already engaged stand. This is my new address,” 
— with one of her brightest smiles she placed the card 
in his hands, then folded her hands demurely across 
her lap, as if inviting him to speak now, or for ever after 
hold his peace. 

“ Then,” he answered, there is nothing left for me to 
do but to accept the humbler position of your financial 
agent.” 

Don t say that. You’re all the friend I have left to 
me ” — with a sudden impulse she stood before him, hold- 
ing out both her hands eagerly, and to his great surprise 
Mr. Gorham saw those splendid eyes swimming in tears. 
“ See,” she said, smiling and crying in a very April 
fashion ; “ I’ve not quite gotten control of myself yet.” 
Mr. Gorham still held her hand, while in his low, rich 
voice he assured her again and again of his heartiest 
sympathy and most earnest desire to befriend her though 
every extremity. “ Tell me then,” she said, her voice 
sinking almost to a whisper ; while standing there close 
to him she looked unflinchingly into his eyes, “ what are 
these vile rumors that have floated to my ears since you 
were here yesterday ? ” 

“ How can I tell,” Mr. Gorham said, prepared to watch 


42 


THE SILENT WITNESS, 


every inflection of those mobile features, “what vile ru- 
mors have reached your ears ?” 

“ I mean about Gregory — and — Dr. Whitehurst. Is it 
true that he, my husband, is suspected of being a mur- 
derer ? ” 

“ It is,” the lawyer answered, with cold abruptness. 

“ And it is believed ? ” 

“ By a large majority.” 

“ Fools ! Do you believe it } ” she asked sharply. 

“ I do not want to believe it, but — ” 

“Listen to me, Mr. Gorham,” — she was white, but calm 
as a marble statue, as she laid her hand on the lawyer’s 
arm and said, in a low, distinct whisper : “ I know all 
about the taking off of Spencer Whitehurst. Should the 
time ever come when, to save Gregory or any other inno- 
cent man, it will be necessary to make public what I 
know, come to me and I will speak out boldly and fear- 
lessly. But that time shall never come ! ” she gasped, 
with fierce resolution. 

A passion of regret took hold upon Hugh Gorham. 
How he wished to God he had never taken upon him the 
guardianship of this fiery, beautiful woman ! In his soul 
he believed her capable of coming fearlessly forward and 
proclaiming her own guilt, should the time come when it 
would be necessary to save another. 

“Mrs. Kendall,” he said, huskily, “answer me one 
question, only one. Was not the chemist’s death the 
death of a suicide ? ” 

He asked the question slowly and imperiously, more as 
if planting an idea than seeking information. 

“// was not'" 

Then the lawyer went away fully impressed with the 
idea that Gregory Kendall had thrown away a rare jewel 
for lack of power to appreciate its worth. To him 
Gregory’s wife was a combination of wit and wisdom, 
and strength and winning fascination, altogether unique 
in his limited experiences of womankind. But then, as 
she had said, his experience had lain only with the 
sophisticated and the effete. 

There are two classes of egotists in the world, only one 
of which can properly be catalogued with the ills that 
human flesh is heir to. 


MR. GORHAM'S EQUIPOISE AGAIN DISTURBED. 43 


The one class is the egotist ordinary. A species of 
stinging, insinuating, tenacious borer of highly irritating 
tendencies, that seeks to exalt every small private 
grievance into matter of public concern : that chants 
the baldest personalities into one’s ear until one longs 
for the privilege of strangling the misapplied power of 
utterance out of its inflated head. Poor, stupid, grovel- 
ers of circumscribed vision and contracted souls, who 
perform their mission upon earth in being nuisances just 
as completely as do the flies and mosquitoes and gnats 
which, we were told, are put here for some wise purpose, 
as, maybe, they are, but they are none the less abomina- 
tions upon the face of the earth, and the wise purpose of 
the flies, and the mosquitoes, and the egotist ordinary, 
and the gnats, must be a lesson in endurance. The other 
is the egotist extraordinary, the exponent of that grand, 
overspreading, out-reaching exaltation of self, that 
makes a dupe of human nature, assumes that it exists 
only for the advantage of others, takes the most certain 
road to arrive at its ends, and gains the whole world by 
that subtle and delicate mode of acting, which is twin- 
sister to reality. 

The one class feebly pipes its small personality into 
one’s knowledge, endeavoring by alternate coaxing and 
badgering to force others to see it as it sees itself — win- 
ning for its pains nothing better than contemptuous 
endurance or derisive sympathy. The other asserts its 
own importance in the world with such a calm assurance 
of worth that all its drafts upon the world’s bank of 
credulity are honored at sight. To this class belonged 
Gregory Kendall’s wife. Before going to see her, she 
had been in Mr. Gorham’s mind part and parcel of 
Gregory Kendall and Gregory Kendall’s trouble, for 
whose sake alone he took •any interest in her or desired 
to befriend her. But during that first short interview 
the woman’s own handsome, grandly overbearing per- 
sonality loomed into a prominence that dwarfed poor 
Gregory’s individuality and his direful extremity into 
absolute insignificance. 

Walking back to his office, Mr. Gorham essayed a con- 
fused retrospection of that interview. He had been 
brought suddenly into contact with a glittering egotist, 


44 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


but while the glitter of her fine presence, keen under- 
standing and sparkling personality endured, he was not 
in a frame of mind either to detect or condemn the 
egotism. 

It was only after the passage of a few days, when per- 
sonal magnetism had been weakened by absence, that he 
began to reason about Gregory’s wife at all. 

“ How is this, counselor : If a certain party engages 
another certain party to work up a certain job for a cer- 
tain amount, to be paid in a certain contingency, and the 
aforesaid party of the second part has performed his part 
of the contract up to the point of making it morally cer- 
tain that a certain amount promised is his, and a certain 
party of the first part sees private cause for backing out 
of the whole business and proposes to compromise on an 
estimated quid pro quo^ for services already rendered, 
instead of the certain amount before promised, cannot 
the said party of the second part recover damages for 
lost time, lost labor, and neglect of other business, while 
devoting all his time to the pursuit of a certain object as 
hereintobefore directed by the said party of the first 
part ? Is the withdrawal of the said party of the first 
part from the contract, said withdrawal being decidedly 
hurtful to the interests of the said party of the second 
part, actionable ?” 

Thus excitedly Mr. Wilson, the detective, stated a 
certain proposition in very uncertain style to Mr. Gor- 
ham, the morning following the lawyer’s last visit to 
Mrs. Kendall. This energy and excitement found ex- 
pression in an unbroken crescendo, culminating in the 
word “ actionable,” which he positively flung at Mr. 
Gorham’s head. 

“ You forget to mention lost temper, Mr. Wilson, 
among the losses entailed upon a certain party of the 
second part, by the capricious conduct of a certain party 
of the first part,” says Mr. Gorham, with bland facetious- 
ness, unbending (himself best knew why) to the extent 
of a joke. 

“ Beg pardon, counselor, but I’ve been deucedly riled 
by this business and no mistake.” 

“ I am not familiar enough with the points of your 


MR. GORHAM'S EQUIPOISE AGAIN DISTURBED. 45 


case to advise you yet. Ambiguity is never serviceable 
in stating a case. Give me the names of the contracting 
parties, and describe the character of the contract, and I 
can better advise you. We lawyers are not fond of ab- 
stractions, on the part of our clients.” 

“ Well, then, sir, here it is ! As you are aware, I was 
employed by the mother of the late Dr. Spencer White- 
hurst to work up the mvstery of her son’s killing.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, sir. I’ve devoted my time, my labor, my nights, 
when I might a been resting in the bosom of my family ; 
even my money. Counselor Gorham, to find out who 
really did kill that young man. And just as I was about 
to lay my finger on the guilty party — ” 

“And on the thousand dollars,” interpolated Mr. 
Gorham, most uncharitably. 

“ She sends for me, does this capricious old lady,” 
Mr. Wilson proceeds, not being in a position to resent 
the lawyer’s rather pungent joke, “ and without giving 
me even the comfort of a why or a wherefor, she just 
orders me to drop the whole business, and tells me she 
is ready to pay me for services already rendered.” 

“When did this occur?” Mr. Gorham asks, with 
scarcely suppressed interest. 

“ This morning — quite early this morning — not more’n 
six o’clock, a sight earlier than I ever supposed them 
high-flyers ever got out of bed.” 

Mr. Wilson evidently regarded the early morning hour 
of his dismissal in the light of an aggravation of his own 
wrongs and the old lady’s capriciousness. 

“ And Mrs. Whitehurst refused to assign any reason 
for this change ? ” 

“ Absolutely and teetotally. When I pressed for a 
reason, she just told me, sort of offish-like, that she was 
fully satisfied in the matter, and fell back on Christian 
forgiveness and leaving vengeance in the Lord’s hands, 
which may be a good way to get to heaven, but is a 
monstrous poor way to get along here below.” 

“ And you really think you had a case against any 
one, Mr. Wilson ? ” 

“ I know 1 had, sir, — I know I had. And to prove that 
my skill’s not been to blame in this old woman’s busi- 


46 


THE SILENT WITNESS, 


ness, I’ll present my evidence against Gregory Kendall 
to the Grand Jury, and if they don’t find a bill against 
him there’s no law in the land.” 

‘‘ Easy, easy, Mr. Wilson. You remember the advice 
about cooking a hare. First catch your hare.” 

“That’s neither here nor there, counselor. To come 
back — is it actionable ? You know I’ve got the quid pro 
quo to fall back upon.” 

“ I advise you to fall back upon it as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

“ Her backing out ain’t actionable.” 

“ I think not.” 

After ridding himself of his visitor, Mr. Gorham im- 
mediately turned to his desk and wrote the following 
letter to Gregory Kendall : 

My Dear Gregory — Recent occurrences have so altered the face 
of matters here that I deem it best thus promptly to recall you to your 
home and family. 

I am sorry, now, that I allowed your insane folly to hurry both 
you and me towards rmnecessary and indiscreet measures ; or, if not 
indiscreet, at least, as things have turned out, decidedly inconvenient. 

When I first saw your wife, with the lines of a marked and strong 
individuality stamped all over her beautiful face, I was impressed with 
the folly of our not having taken her into our confidence and council. 
Nothing short of the binding promise of secrecy which I, unwisely, 
allowed you to extract from me, prevented me from giving her a full 
statement of our proceedings. 

I am glad, now, that I was pledged to secrecy, for, of course, this 
will bring you home on the wings of love to make your own peace 
and your own explanation. When you have done so, the writer will 
gracefully make his exit from the stage where we have all so recently 
been giving the serio-comic drama of “ A Tempest in a Tea-pot,” in 
our best style, with the virtuous satisfaction of having championed his 
old fag out of one more scrape. That it may be the last, my boy, is 
the heartfelt aspiration of your life-time friend, 

H. L. Gorham. 

Havihg sealed, stamped and addressed this letter to 
the care of the South American coffee merchant to 
whose care he had addressed Gregory himself only one 
short month before, Mr. Gorham was at liberty to turn 
his attention to other things. 

The most important other thing that was on hand for 
that day was an engagement for dinner at Mrs. Man- 
deville Roxbury’s, where he was to meet, for the first 


MR. GORHAM'S EQUIPOISE AGAIN DISTURBED. 47 

time, a bewildering young widow, whose beauty, wealth 
and conversational talents were the talk of the Roxbury 
circle. 

At six o'clock the lawyer found himself in an atmos- 
phere of elegance, in a wilderness of gilding, of flowers, 
of handsome women, and aristocratic languor and fash- 
ionable vacuity, under the Roxbury roof. It was a pet 
scheme of Mrs. Mandeville Roxbury’s, that Hugh Gor- 
ham, elegant, wealthy, unencumbered, should fall a prey 
to the fascinations of her widowed sister, Mrs. Lilie Mel- 
mont. So it was not many minutes after his arrival be- 
fore he was conscious of being billeted for the evening 
upon the irresistible little widow, who played her cards 
with elfish dexterity. 

“ She is lovely,” Mr. Gorham told himself. “Wom- 
anly, dimpled, a thing to be cherished and to take pride 
in — but — she is not to be thought of in connection with 
Gregory Kendall’s wife. Gad ! what full, soul-satisfy- 
ing companionship that woman could give a man.” 

Why, when seated on an ottoman by the side of the 
lovely Mrs. Melmont, whose rich silken draperies rustled 
luxuriously at every turn of her supple body, gazing 
with apparent interest into her large baby-blue eyes, 
whose appealing look of innocence was what enchained 
the most of her adorers, toying with her jeweled fan and 
watching the mobile play of her faultless features as she 
talked at him in her most sparkling vein — why, I say, in 
the midst of so much seductive beauty and splendor, a 
vision of Kate Kendall, poor, deserted, on the eve of 
becoming a shopkeeper, standing bravely alone in a 
bleak, unfriendly world, should have intruded itself with 
a persistence that partook of reproach, is a psychological 
problem that I offer to psychological experts. 

But it did intrude, and that mental decision of Mr. 
Gorham’s, that verdict in favor of lonely, brave-hearted 
Kate, with nothing regal about her but her stately car- 
riage, not splendor, but the flash of her big brown eyes 
over the luxurious charms of the toasted beauty by his 
side, was an involuntarily amende. 

Mrs. Melmont’s last thought that night was : “He is 
just the thing ! I shall try for him ! ” 

Mr. Gorham’s was all about Gregory Kendall. 


48 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


Would he get that letter? Would he come back? 
And Gregory’s friend wished that he might not. 


CHAPTER VI. 

OPENING DAY. 

^^TJOW does it look, Betty — very attractive? So 
Xl altogether irresistible, that people will find it 
utterly impossible to pass it, without coveting 
possession of everything in it ? ” 

The in question was the show-window attached 
to a certain small stationer’s establishment away up-town, 
far enough from the former place of residence of the 
Kendalls, for the ever-surging billows of new events and 
fresh interests to have swept over the old spot, with all 
its dark suspicions and stains, burying the very name of 
Kendall in oblivion, so far as their mere neighbors were 
concerned. 

It was Mrs. Kendall’s opening day, and, notwithstand- 
ing the rather beautiful display of bravery and resolution 
and confidence in her ultimate success, which buoyed 
her up comfortably while talking her scheme over in her 
own pretty little parlor with Mr. Gorham, now that the 
store had actually been leased for a whole year, and 
(what was to her) a large sum of money had actually 
been expended upon her stock, so that she was actually 
and irrevocably committed to the venture, she felt no 
slight degree of uneasiness and a strange sinking of the 
heart, which, to her strong, vigorous soul, was not an 
every-day sensation. She had risked so much, almost 
her all — what if, after all, it should prove a complete 
failure ? She closed her eyes in a spasm of nervous agi- 
tation, but presently opened them with a brightly defiant 
look gleaming in them, and shook her head as if in 
violent denial of the possibility of failure. 

“ I shall not fail, I must not fail, I cannot afford to 
fail ; for father is dead, and, oh ! those haughty, scorn- 
ful wives of the boys ! ” she murmured. 

She w^s standing on the inner side of the one window 


OPENING DA V. 


49 


to her little shop, early on the morning of her “ opening 
day,” when she asked Betty those questions, and while 
Betty was deliberating as to how things did impress one 
from an outside standpoint, Mrs. Kendall was seized 
with those agitating misgivings under which her cheeks 
paled, a gloomy look darkened her splendid eyes, and 
for an instant the firm, clear-cut lips quivered with a very 
womanly weakness. 

Betty had gone out upon the sidewalk, and with her 
bare, red arms folded complacently across her broad, 
honest bosom, her head with its shock of light sandy 
hair turned critically to one side, her beady, black eyes 
traveled deliberately over the contents of the shop- 
window, trying to decide what the great public, which 
she was presumed just then to represent, would think of 
the display. 

With the wooden shutters up to exclude premature 
stars, and the mantle of night rendering their privacy yet 
more private, the two women had arranged that show- 
window with a deal of consultation and consideration 
and putting down and taking up, and altering and sug- 
gestion, so that each article should be prominently in the 
front and none obscurely in the rear, expending upon it 
an amount of very serious consideration necessary from 
the seller’s point of view. There was papeierie^ 

pretty and plentiful enough, according to Betty’s unlet- 
tered judgment to “ s’ply the whole town with writing 
maytiriel for a whole year.” Gorgeous pictorials, cal- 
culated to seduce infancy’s tenderest representative into 
the thorny path of learning ; porcelain inkstands, fear- 
fully and wonderfully made ; kites, so symmetrical of 
form, so vivid of coloring as to make senility “ would it 
were a boy again with countless other articles intended 
to touch the fancy and invade the pockets of whosoever 
should unwisely linger to gaze. 

Betty was little Rosa Kendall’s nurse, and with that 
stanch devotion not uncommon with her class, she had 
declared her intention to adhere to Mrs. Kendall’s fallen 
fortunes in spite of that lady’s repeated assurances that 
her fare would be rough, and her wages uncertain. 
Friends were not so many that Catherine could afford to 
drive this humble one from her, so Betty had come to 


50 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


the new place with them, and when she fell into the way 
of saying thereby making herself a sharer of all 

the cares and privations and labors as well as of the 
meager comfort of the new establishment, there was 
nothing for Gregory’s wife to do but overlook the 
familiarity in grateful consideration of the loyal service 
and cheerful endurance that went along with it. 

Homely of feature, stalwart of arm, and stout of heart, 
Betty was a power in the little household, added to 
which she was possessed of a certain shrewd keenness of 
judgment, and a large stock of very decided opinions 
which she was neither to be coaxed nor badgering into 
altering. As upon the present occasion, when she sent 
Betty out into the street to see their window as others 
would see it, Mrs. Kendall often relied more upon 
her keen intuition than upon her own more fastidious 
judgment. 

“There’s no denyin’,” Betty made answer through the 
show-window (having deliberately made up her mind), 
“ that we hev come down in the world a peg or two, and 
there’s no denyin’ agen, that this winder do make a 
tol’able poor show after the lovely green an’ purple and 
red jars in the master’s ’pothecary’s winders, where was 
also the lovely scenten bottles with real gold stoppers, 
and the sweet-smellingest soap I ever sniffed, and the 
jars upon jars of nice, fresh physics that made it a com- 
fort-like to get sick oncet in awhile ; but then a shop’s a 
shop, and considerin’ that we’ve gone into the paper 
business 'stead of the drug line, taint so bad.’’ 

“ Oh, Betty, what a feeble indorsement ! ’’ says Kate, 
eyeing her rather ruefully over the turrets of a mag- 
nificent ABC block castle. 

“ Indursement ! ’’ Betty sends back, sharply; “we 
neither asks nor gives the like, we're a cash concern.” 

“To everybody but Miss Rosa Kendall,” says 
Catherine, quickly laying a prohibitory touch upon a 
pair of covetous little hands, which Rosa, by dint of 
painful tiptoeing and dexterity of grasp, had placed upon 
a tempting rosy apple paper-weight that formed one of 
the window lures. 

“ Bless her sweet eyes ! ” says Betty, adding, in affec- 
tionate sarcasm, “ I’m afraid she's like to be our most 


OPENING DA Y. 


frequent customer. It’ll be hard work teaching her that 
all the pretty things worn’t bought for her own private 
delight, like they usened to be when we were in our own 
rightful position in the world.” 

“We are in our rightful position now, Betty, if trying 
to do our duty in any position can keep things right,” 
Catherine answers bravely, for Betty’s cheerful view of 
things had its usual effect, and she felt almost light- 
hearted standing there in the fresh early morning, before 
the heat and burden of the day had come to dull her 
sensibilities and w^er her hopeBilness. Buoyed up by 
a delightful sens^tf freedom from the insulting and 
curious gazes that had of late met her on all sides in that 
down-town locality, where everybody knew about her 
and Gregory and Spencer Whitehurst, looking forward 
unflinchingly to a life of steady occupation and social 
isolation, she was conscious of a keen zest of curiosity as 
to what this day would bring forth for her. The natural 
vigor of her physique, combined with dauntless mental 
energy, made it easy for her, in general, to take a cheerful 
and hopeful view of things. (After all, melancholia and 
dyspepsia are convertible terms, I think.) 

“ Thank God ! ” she thought, “ I shall not be a thing 
of note here, at any rate. The story will keep its old 
name — Shropshire’s Stand — and who will know, or care, 
whether I am Shropshire or Shropshire’s wife, or whether 
Betty is, or what ? ” 

Feeling thus free and secure, she sent her eyes beyond 
Betty’s sandy plaits to note if, maybe, although the hour 
was far too early to expect or hope for custom, some 
admiring gaze might not already be resting upon that 
wonderful window. 

A strange eye certainly had been attracted to the spot, 
and Catherine met its steady gaze with a sense of con- 
fusion utterly overpowering. 

The street that was adorned by Shropshire’s Stand 
was quite a narrow up-town street, and on the opposite 
side from it — so immediately opposite that, aided by 
the early morning stillness, Catherine felt quite sure 
that nothing but total deafness could have prevented him 
from hearing every word that passed between her and 
Betty — stood a gentleman ! A man of noble presence, 


52 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


gallantly erect despite his whitening hair and beard, and 
the fact that he carried a heavy gold-headed cane. He 
was looking straight over Betty’s unlovely head, through 
the wondrous window, and directly into Kate’s hand- 
some face, with a pair of keen, blue, kindly eyes, that 
twinkled just then with genial enjoyment of the confusion 
his involuntary eavesdropping had evidently produced. 

“ Betty,” Mrs. Kendall called through the window in a 
warning undertone, for Betty was not possessed of that 
good thing in woman, a low, sweet voice, and was still 
rendering her verbose judgment upon the show-window. 

Following the direction of her mistress’s eyes, Betty 
coolly inspected the stranger on the sidewalk ; then said, 
rather resenting his steady inspection of Catherine 

“ He takes you for a wax figure in a hair-dresser’s shop. 
Shall I call his attention to the character of our 
business ? ” 

“Come right in, you goose?” Kate answered, then 
turned angrily away from the fixed regard of those pene- 
trating blue eyes. As Betty entered she closed the door 
■with an imperative slam, wondering, with a sick heart- 
faintness, if the man out yonder could possibly be of the 
Whitehurst connection come to probe that dark secret 
yet again. Thus ever present was that one dark thread 
to weave itself through the woof of her life-web. 

“ The next thing to be did,” said Betty, eyeing the 
jealously closed door with grim dissatisfaction, “ is for 
you to write the word ‘ push ’ in big black letters on a 
big white card, just as like to printin’ as you can make 
it, and I’ll paste it inside the glass part of the door, 
‘ push’ a-facin’ to the street.” 

“ Push ! ” echoes Catherine, mystified. 

“ Well, yes. It won’t do no good, I take it, to set up 
shop and then bang the door in the face of the first man 
that looks like he had a notion of droppin’ in. Least- 
ways, without a-stickin’ of the word ‘ push ’ up for to give 
folks permission to follow us in when we gets huffy and 
slams the doors to.” 

“ But, Betty, he was staring so at me ! ” 

“ Well, and you’re part of the shop now, I take it. I 
tell you what we’ll have to do. Miss Kate ; if we’re so 
thin-skinned we can’t bear being looked at by no 


OPENING DA y. 


53 


customer that don’t bring a letter of introduction, we'll 
just have to keep shop in black silk dominoes, with eye- 
holes for seein’ straight about the change, you know. 
That’ll fetch folks.” 

Of course Catherine laughed, as Betty had intended 
she should. Then she flung the door wide open again, 
and peered anxiously up and down the street, wondering 
if she really had absurdly frightened away her first 
customer. But there was no stately old gentleman with 
white hair and keen blue eyes anywhere within range of 
her vision. 

Then she sought consolation in calling herself a 
“ goose,” sternly reminded herself that unless she wished 
to facilitate that dread failure she had shuddered over in 
secret, she must sink all lady-like preferences in the 
practicalness of the shop-woman, resolved that this should 
be her last exhibition of such folly, and adjourned to the 
breakfast-table. That first day of keeping shop was a 
day full of nervous expectation, fluttering hope, and serio- 
comic experences — a day such as neither Mrs. Kendall 
nor honest Betty were apt ever to forget. 

It was the brightest of May mornings ; just such a day 
as was calculated to beguile people out of doors in swarms, 
in consequence of which custom might be expected to be 
brisk. This was the first time, it occurred to Catherine, 
that she had ever been led to reflect upon solar influence 
on trade. But prosaic considerations were rapidly be- 
coming the natural conditions of her changed life. 

Notwithstanding the seductive sunshine and the balmy 
influences of earth, air and sky, custom did not flow 
towards Shropshire’s Stand with the briskness desirable 
from a seller’s point of view. 

The demand for fancy “ stationeery ” (as Betty would 
have it) and light literature seemed decidedly languid. 
It was certainly not owing to any remissness on the part 
of the two women. For although Catherine had supplied 
herself with a piece of sewing, and (seated slightly out of 
range from street-gazers) assumed what was intended 
for a calm look of quite used-to-it-ness, such was her 
nervous apprehension that somebody might come in and 
fail to observe her in attendance, that she started forward, 
hysterically, at every footfall on the flags outside. The 


54 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


rockers of her little wicker chair seemed in a fair way 
to solve the problem of perpetual motion, while her 
sewing remained very much as it was when she first took 
it up. 

Towards noon Kate’s first customer appeared on the 
stage. It was a small schoolboy, whose chin rested con- 
fidingly on her counter as he piped forth, in a childish 
tenor, his immediate need for a slate-pencil. Mrs. Ken- 
dall produced the slate-pencils, wrapped them up, and 
handed them to the boy with a regal dignity that made 
the whole transaction look like a very poor joke, and the 
small boy went away, placidly chewing the end of his 
new acquisition in utter unconsciousness that he had 
pointed an era in anybody’s life. 

“ Great oaks from little acorns grows,” says Betty, en- 
couragingly, as Kate drops her first commercial returns 
into the empty cash drawer. A dingy, lonely nickel that 
rolled into the darkest corner of the drawer in utter 
shame for its own insignificance. 

Kate smiled rather drearily at Betty’s persistent cheer- 
fulness, and resumed her pretense of industry and her 
reality of anxious alertness, when, lo ! with many a silken 
rustle, her second customer stood before her. 

Mrs. Kendall felt herself grow red in a very unbusi- 
ness-like fashion as she advanced to wait upon this new- 
comer. This fashionable dame, with dainty kid-gloves, 
her rustling silks and ladylike appointments, marked the 
line between herself as she was and herself as she used 
to be too plainly not to set poor Kate’s blood to tingling. 

A condescending nod from the lady to the shop- 
woman preceded her inquiry for children’s pictorials. 

Catherine politely spread her handsome array of those 
world-renowned baby classics, “ Cock Robin,” “ Jack 
the Giant-killer,” with “Mother Goose’s” tender rhap- 
sodies, in every shape and form, before the lady. Higher 
and higher grew the pile, wider spread the confusion upon 
that little counter, more fastidious and exacting grew my 
lady buyer, more regal and disgusted my lady seller, 
with every suggestion. 

Catherine’s “ Cock Robins ” were “ all on paper instead 
of indestructible linen,” all her “ Jack the Giant-killers” 
were such “ ferocious monsters of ugliness,” that madame 


OPEmNG DAY, 


55 


was quite sure they would “ murder sleep for her cherub.” 
Her “ Mother Gooses ” were well enough, but the cherub 
had already exhausted that well-spring of pleasure. 
Finally, by dint of much laudation on Catherine’s part, 
and unusual artistic merit on its own, madame was graci- 
ously pleased to express her entire satisfaction with a 
brilliant “House that Jack Built,” and, placing its 
monied valuation upon the counter, swept gracefully out 
of the little shop with another condescending nod and 
one supercilious glance into the face of the woman 
who had, even before that rencounter, come into her life 
to warp its fair web and change its brilliant hue. All 
unknown to each other, my lady buyer and my lady seller 
were to have greater questions to settle betwixt them 
than that day’s slender work. 

While Catherine was patiently restoring things to 
order, Betty swooped down upon her from the rear, where 
she had been a very impatient looker-on. 

“ Miss Kate,” she said, hesitatingly. 

“ Well, Betty ! ” 

“It hurts, don’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, it hurts, Betty,” says Kate, looking at her with 
bravely determined eyes; “ but I knew it would before 
I undertook it.” 

“ We’ve got to have a signal-service. Miss Kate.” 

“ A signal-service. Bet ! ” 

“ Yes’m, ’tween you and me. Most times it will pay 
better for you to do the waitin’, as what with the cookin’ 
an'the washin’, ’tain’t always that I’m fitten to be seen. 
But when folks like that one comes, folks that make it 
bitter hard for you not to tell them you’re just as good 
as them, let me come. One finger up means — Miss Kate’s 
customers ; two fingers up — old Bet’s.” 

“We’ll see, Betty. I doubt whether your signal-ser- 
vice will always work well, for I’m not clear as to how 
two upraised fingers will always conjure you in sight from 
kitchen-stove or washing-tub ; but I thank you for the 
kindly thought,” Mrs. Kendall answered, smiling very 
gratefully into the sunburnt face of her one friend. 

Shropshire’s Stand had a few more visitors that day ; 
but, on summing up the cash receipts at night it was 
found, after placing to the loss account a handsome vase 


S6 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


that Rosa had knocked off the counter, the day’s re- 
ceipts did not foot up very satisfactorily. 

Betty looked so decidedly disgusted and downcast 
when Mrs. Kendall announced the result of her calcula- 
tions, that Kate had to turn comforter for once. So she 
said : 

“ Don’t droop after just one little day’s experiment, 
my good Betty; we must learn to meet reverses, boldly to 
fling defiance at disappointment; but whatever else we 
fail to do, we must act the play out to the bitter end.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 

A nd the evening and the morning were the seventh 
day ! And God blessed the seventh day and sanc- 
tified it. 

Sunday ! The first Sunday since Catherine had 
stepped into the ranks of the bread-winners, and never 
before had the word Sabbath held so much meaning for 
her. She would indeed “ rest from labor.” The deep- 
toned bells that were ringing from a score of steeples, as 
she lingered over a late breakfast (luxuriating in the con- 
sciousness that she need not hurry from the table to the 
counter), sounded fuller than ever before of solemn 
power and tender invitation. “ Peace ! be still — be 
still ! ” was what they said to her. The restless week-a- 
day roar of the city was subdued to a decorous murmur. 
The metallic ring of boot-heels, a sound that had startled 
her into such nervous activity every few moments during 
that first long, anxious week, came to-day at leisurely 
intervals, and fell with a far-away, muffled sound on her 
unheeding ears, through the heavy wooden shutters. It 
was pleasant to think there was no need to take the green 
shutters down to day. It was a day of rest for them too, 
and for all the shrouded glories of the show-window. It 
was a day of rest from chaffering, from eager servitude, 
from petty money changing. A day of rest from insolent 
patronage, from galling condescension, from curious 


A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


57 


scrutiny (for Mrs. Kendall’s haughtily handsome face and 
imperious bearing seemed curiously out of place behind 
the little retail counter). A day of rest from the regular- 
ly recurring annoyance of the spectacle of a stately 
white-haired elderly man, pacing slowly (but with the 
regularity of the town clock) by Shropshire’s Stand, his 
keen blue eyes scanning the open doorway with a scru- 
tiny almost eager in its earnestness, sometimes pausing 
as if determined to enter, always ending by not doing so, 
but walking on, out of sight, with a slowness that partook 
of reluctance. A day of rest from great expectations and 
small realizations. And Catherine blessed the seventh 
day and hallowed it. Betty made bold to ask her, that 
morning, where she was going to church, as their distance 
from the old locality demanded the selection of a new 
place of worship. 

Mrs. Kendall’s answer made the good creature pause 
mid-way between the kitchen and dining-room, with the 
tray of breakfast things clasped close to her astonished 
bosom. For Catherine’s mind was soaring aloft with a 
Sabbath-day sense of freedom, away above Betty and the 
breakfast dishes and the little shop, as she answered 
slowly, almost dreamily : 

“Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, 

Thy strength the slave of want may be, 

The seventh — thy limbs escape the chain — 

A God hath made thee free ! ’ 

And I am going to enjoy my God-given freedom in 
my own way, Betty. I shall not go to church at all.” 

“ About the freedom you’re right. Miss Kate. I ain’t 
none of your howlin’ church folks myself. But about the 
child of Cain, you’re quite out, m’am. My father’s name 
was plain Patrick Donovan,” Betty answers, with literal 
appropriation and liberal translation of Mrs. Kendall’s 
flight. 

“Then it’s old Bett,” she resumed, returning empty- 
handed from the kitchen, “ and Miss Rosa that’ll have 
to keep up the good name of the family for Christian folks. 
So I’d best be gettin’ the purty thing ready.” 

Catherine was fully aware that the proposition to take 
Rosa with her was just one of Betty’s kindly acts, meant 


58 


THE SILENT WITNESS, 


to secure her mistress her day of rest in its fullest, 
quietest sense. 

Shropshire’s Stand was not all store. Modestly retir- 
ing from the street, a little way back was attached a 
small wing to the building. And, as the Aving had its 
own front door, and its own scrap of front yard, a yard 
glorified by a short brick walk, flanked on either side by 
a couple of ancient arbor-vitae trees, in which the vitse 
must have been all powerful to combat so long and suc- 
cessfully with age and neglect, it had been reserved for 
the living rooms of the little family. 

Mrs. Kendall’s dining and sitting room consumed the 
entire first floor, A room that commanded an unlimited 
view of the afore-mentioned brick walk and dust 
crowned arbor-vitaes, a high wooden fence, or rather 
wall, painted the prevailing shade of dingy green that 
seemed to have been so dear to the Shropshire soul, 
barring farther vision. Up-stairs her sleeping apartment 
and Betty’s, in friendly juxtaposition, shared between 
them a scrap of balcony, which, all latticed and vine- 
shaded as it was, was the prettiest and pleasantest spot 
on the premises, looking out over the dingy green wall, 
taking in a bird’s-eye view of the spires and streets and 
homes of the big crowded city, that Kate often looked 
out upon and sighed, “ Near a whole city full — friend had 
she none.” 

Betty and Rosa had passed out of sight through the 
hideous green doorway in the ugly wooden wall. Betty, 
so severely rigid in her stiff Sunday appareling as to 
necessitate a rigid style of carriage and progression alto- 
gether unlike her rapid work-day swin^, her honest face 
some degrees ruddier by reason of extra Sabbath ablu- 
tions, carried Rosa proudly in her arms. The pretty thing, 
all ribbons and smiles, was tremulous with delight. 
“To be gone all day,” Betty said, with the air of one 
giving a bit of good news. 

“We’ll go to church first, like live • Christians, as I 
hope we be. Then we’ll go to my sister Jenny’s; the 
same which cooks for Mrs. Mandeville Roxbury, one of 
the biggest guns in this town, where I’m sure of a good 
bite, Avithout the trouble of cooking it aforehand, and 
afterwards I’ll walk the purty thing about in the park ’til 


A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 


59 


tea-time, for none too much outin’ does she get these 
busy days. And you’re not to draw an uneasy breath 
about her, Miss Kate, for you’ll know she is safe in 
Betty’s arms all the while.” 

And Catherine had entered no demurrer. She was 
never one of those fondly foolish mothers given to dis- 
quieting themselves in vain, and she was glad to have 
them go, glad to be left entirely alone. 

A whole day to myself,” she said, almost gleefully ; 
“ how shall I make the best of it ? I’ll do absolutely 
nothing until that wearies me. Absolutely nothing but 
use my eyes,” she amended. So, with her hands idly 
folded, she sat in luxurious ease in her favorite spot, 
the vine-shaded scrap of a balcony, not caring to open 
the morning’s paper, which she had found on the floor 
of the balcony, in a damp crumpled knot, just as the car- 
rier had flung it. 

She did not consider that her poverty and isolation 
need be supplemented by an ignorance of current 
events, even though she went not with that current, so 
one daily paper was included among her luxuries. To 
be read generally by intermediate jerks and snatches, 
but to-day, after a while, after she had enjoyed her 
dolce far niente to her utmost, she would enjoy her paper 
to its utmost. So she sat for a long time after Betty and 
Rosa went away, gazing down upon the stream of pious 
humanity that flowed with a tranquil Sunday sluggish- 
ness by Shropshire’s Stand towards the church that 
flanked the square to her right. She wondered if Betty 
had taken Rosa to that church, to sustain the family 
name for Christianity. Her outlook commanded one of 
the city parks, a pleasure-ground for up-town citizens. It 
was small, but oh ! so inviting, with its bright parterres 
and handsome shade trees, its well-kept sward and white 
shelled walks. Were ever green trees ever so lovely in 
her eyes before ? Were those trees extraordinary in 
themselves, or was it Shropshire’s parody of nature’s 
favorite line that made nature’s own green so lovely ? she 
wondered. There were birds in the trees out yonder. 
She could hear them whistling and chirruping and warbl- 
ing, as they used to whistle and chirrup and warble in 
the trees around the old rectory at home, where she used 


6o 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


to fancy they were trying to whistle down the poor feebly 
piping organ in the little church near by, where she and 
father and the boys used to go as regularly as the Sun- 
day rolled around. 

It furnished her languid entertainment, in her idle 
loneliness, to watch these city worshipers as they poured 
in a steady stream towards the open doors of the church. 
Every one walked slowly and decorously, not with the 
eager earnestness of those in hot pursuit of worldly gain 
or sensual satisfaction. There is no need to hurry over 
Sabbath-day transactions. Spiritual nourishment is not 
of the nature of hasty pudding, and the treasure which 
is only available in the celestial exchequer can be laid 
up without undue mortification of the flesh or unseemly 
speed. So Catherine had ample opportunity to scan the 
men’s faces and the women’s bonnets. But the tran- 
sient interest she felt in that crowd of strangers went 
deeper than facial expression or chip and artificial 
flowers. 

It was rather a somber sort of curiosity concerning 
that young husband and his happy-looking wife, saun- 
tering slowly by on their way to church, arm in arm, just 
as she and Gregory used to go, before he had broken the 
tie that bound them and shattered their home happiness 
for ever. Was this couple really as happy and united as 
their serene faces and locked arms bespoke them ? Was 
the serenity that illumined their features resting in their 
souls as well, or was it put on with his best coat and her 
best bonnet, for Sunday wear and the world’s inspection 
only ? When they had locked their house door behind 
them, before starting for church, had they locked up a 
closet, too ? A closet with a hideous skeleton in it, as 
she and Gregory used to lock a closet behind them 
and walk smilingly, arm in arm, before all men ! Who 
knew ? This man and this woman passed from her sight 
into the church over yonder, gone to acknowledge to 
Omniscience in a confidential whisper that they had 
done the things they ought not to have done, and left 
undone the things they ought to have done. But that 
confession was not for Catherine nor the world. 

A noisy troop of boys clattered close behind the arm- 
in-arm couple. Half-grown boys painfully conscious of 


A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 6i 

too much wrist and an upward tendency about their pant 
knees, deficiencies for which nothing short of a little 
promissory down upon the upper lip can console the boy- 
ish soul. Gregory’s wife smiled down upon them from 
her ambush. There were four of them, long-wristed, 
merry-voiced, bright, rollicking, happy-faced. Just the 
number and the ages of the brothers that had made the 
delight and the torment of her own girlish existence. 
“ Oh, the boys ! the dear, dear boys with ever a glove 
to be hunted, a button replaced, a sorrow sympathized 
with, a task to be helped with, a scrape tided over,, and 
kisses for her reward ! Would they be saddened in their 
scattered homes, with their new ties and new joys about 
them, if they could know how desolately alone Cath, 
“Queen Cath,” as they used to call her, was sitting there 
on that bright blessed Sunday ? 

She had smiled down upon the boys, but tears moist- 
ened her eyelids as her gaze fell on the bent form of an 
old man, leaning heavily on the strong young arm of a 
daughter, who tenderly regulated the springy steps of 
youth to the feeble requirements of age. She, too, had 
once thus tenderly lent her lusty strength to support an 
old man’s tottering steps. But the old man was dead 
now, gone to renew his youth and strength at the foun- 
tain of immortality, and she was an orphan. An orphan ! 
a deserted wife ! a friendless woman ! Every one but 
herself seemed to have some companionship, some one to 
warm the chilled soul, as only loving sympathy can 
warm it. 

At last there was one solitary figure ! It was that of 
an elderly man. His hair was flecked with gray, his 
eyes were keen and bright and blue. He walked with a 
heavy gold-headed cane ! What was he doing there ? 
He was an anachronism on this bright blessed day of 
rest. He belonged to the week-day world, to the 
odious shop days, that had been haunted by his presence 
as an added element of annoyance and disgust. Catherine 
resented his appearance before heron this, her day of rest. 
He carried her back to the shop, and the chaffering and 
the petty money changing, and to the suspicion that 
this man was somehow or other destined to glide into her 
life, to work her an endless amount of woe. Else, why 


62 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


should he be thus ever present before her physical sight? 
She did not believe, as Betty tried to have her, that it 
was purely accidental. 

Almost wistfully the man’s keen blue eyes scanned the 
barred windows and bolted doorway of Shropshire 
Stand, but he never once paused, lor he, too, was pro- 
gressing in a leisurely fashion towards the church over 
yonder. Catherine turned peevishly from her outlook. 
He had darkened the day for her. Destroyed that per- 
fect calm which had come to her with the solemn chime 
of church bells, the cathedral stillness of the house and 
the blessed leisure of the morning, but was by no means 
the normal condition of her restlessly active spirit. She 
had thought to steep every moment of this day in idle 
enjoyment, but already she began to wonder how many 
hours Betty and little Rosa would yet be gone. 

Betty and Rosa ! In a world full of people they 
were all that was left to her. An unlettered servant- 
girl and a child too young to exchange a word will con- 
stitute all my world, all my association, all my society, she 
bitterly thought. How long can I stand it — stand it and 
not go wild ? I fancied seclusion was what I wanted for 
my brain-work. I was wrong. Minds need friction as 
the body needs exercise. I do not think in this dreary 
isolation. I brood ! Brood and remember ! Brood 
over joys I have tasted, but shall never taste again. Re- 
member hours that make the past ghastly, the present 
hideous ? I want no more Sundays ! No more days of 
rest ! No more stopping of the wheel ! Work, work, 
work, must be my life, my pleasure, my panacea. Oh, 
Gregory, how could you ! With her hands outstretched 
in a burst of passionate resentment, she paused in her 
restless circuit of the room, as her gloom-shadowed eyes 
rested on a small oil portrait of her husband that hung 
above the mantel. She confidently believed that Greg- 
ory would come back to her some day, as suddenly and 
causelessly as he had left her. And he should find 
that she had not tried to banish his image from her 
heart. 

It was a handsome face that smiled serene indifference 
down upon her stormy agitation. A perfect oval, fea- 
tures delicate, but as clear-cut as a stone cameo, a face 


A Sl'ARl'LING DISCOVERY. 63 

fuller of refinement than of strength. The mouth, hid- 
den by a full brown mustache, short curly hair crowning 
a shapely head well set upon a long, slender white 
throat ; a pair of large dark eyes, in which, at the taking 
of that likeness, shone the lambent light of the honey- 
moon, a generous luminary that lightens up our perfec- 
tions and tenderly casts our defects into the shadow. 

Catherine loved this picture as a memento of Gregory 
at his best.' And to it she uttered her plaint. 

“ How could you, Gregory ? — oh, how could you ? 
What does it all mean ? What did I do to bring it 
about ? As God is my witness I do not know. To 
think — to think, Gregory, of all this useless misery ! I 
— poor, alone, looked at askance ; you a wanderer, 
self-exiled from wife, home and child. My God, for 
the power to undo it all ! It seems like some baseless, 
hideous dream.” 

Restlessly pacing to and fro, she became conscious, 
presently, that she still grasped the paper she had picked 
up on the balcony, but never even unfolded. 

“ I will read it,” she said decidedly — “ read it through 
conscientiously, set myself a task that will kill an hour or 
two for me, for sit and brood any longer I dare not.” 

In pursuance of this resolve, she began laboriously 
and conscientiously to master the contents of the eight 
pages of the Sunday Times. 

Presently an exclamation of pain burst from her lips, 
and again and again she read this cruel paragraph; there 
seemed a horrible fascination about the written words 
that held her gaze spellbound : 

“ The mills of the gods do not always grind with their 
proverbial slowness. A few short months ago our com- 
munity was thrown into a state of indignant excitement 
over the sudden and mysterious taking off of an estim- 
able young chemist, who was regarded as one of our 
most promising young men. The man who, beyond a 
possibility of a doubt, was the murderer, has met with a 
fearful punishment speedily. Gregory Kendall, who, deaf 
to every call of nature, deserted wife and child, and fled 
the city to escape the terror of the law, is now a raving 
lunatic in Spottstown Asylum, ‘Vengeance is mine,’ 
saith the Lord.” 


64 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


“ Then I, too, am a murderer ! ” cried Gregory’s wife. 

Her head dropped upon her hands, and such a gust of 
passionate agitation as never before had shaken that 
strong, brave spirit, swept stormily over her, bending her 
to the earth like a broken reed. It was all so unreal ! 
so startling, this dark revelation coming to her there in 
the peaceful quiet of her own room. With the bright 
sunlight flooding the world outside and shining down 
upon Spencer Whitehurst’s grave, almost forgotten already 
by that busy world; with the solemn notes of the organ 
floating across the quiet square to her ears, it had come 
to her, this awful revelation, with no clamor of accusation 
or reproach, through no agency but that of her own 
unquiet spirit, but it had stunned her like a fierce blow 
from a brutal hand. 

‘‘ My God, for the sound of a human voice ! ” she 
gasped ; “ the clasp of a human hand ! Anything, any- 
thing to break this ghastly silence, to bring me back from 
this dream of horror. 

“ Gregory accused, exiled, maddened for a crime he is 
as innocent of as our baby Rosa ! And I — I could 
have helped it ! It is I who sent Spencer Whitehurst to 
his grave ! I who broke that lonely old woman’s heart ! 
I who drove my husband to the madhouse ! Oh, father, 
father, why can not I go to you ? Where shall I turn for 
help, for pity, and for counsel?” 

A sharp ring at the door-bell sent her flying with hys- 
terical haste to admit Betty and Rosa. 

Pale, her dark lashes still dewy with the tears she had 
hastily dashed aside, more lovely then ever, with a cer- 
tain look of womanly weakness about her, she stood 
within the open door. Stately, calm and handsome, 
irreproachable in point of apparel and deportment, Hugh 
Gorham stood without the open door. 

. He had hoped she would be glad to see him. He 
wanted her to be. But when both her white hands were 
clasped passionately about the one he extended in greet- 
ing, and in a voice trembling with emotion she exclaimed, 
“ Thank God, you have come at last ! ” a flash of tri- 
umphant pleasure lit his cold gray eyes into positive 
beauty. 

All unconscious of the interpretation that might be 


SUNSHlISrE AND MR. GORHAM. 


65 


placed upon her actions, she clung to him until she had 
drawn him towards the little sofa in the sitting-room ; he 
was nothing to her, this handsome, cool man of brains and 
position, nothing to her individually, but he was a re- 
presentative of the great human family, with a heart to 
feel for her, a brain to counsel her, a soul to pity her 
in this the time of her sore need. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

SUNSHINE AND MR. GORHAM. 

R ead that I ” she cried hysterically, holding the 
crumpled morning paper towards him, indicating 
with a trembling finger the disturbing paragraph : 
“ pity me, and tell me what to do ! ” then sinking into a 
low chair close by the sofa on which she had ensconced 
her visitor, she folded her hands tightly over one another, 
and in affected calmness watched the reader’s face ; only 
one small slippered foot, beating the faded carpet with 
restless motion, bespoke her ill at ease. 

“ I do not believe one word of it,” says the lawyer, 
presently, turning his clear gray eyes from the paper to 
Gregory’s wife. “ I do not believe that Gregory Kendall 
has ever seen the interior of a madhouse, nor that he 
ever shed a drop of human blood. That circumstantial 
evidence was strong enough against him to render his 
absence advisable is probable, but you are aware, I pre- 
sume, that Spencer Whitehurst’s mother has peremptorily 
commanded that all inquiry into the matter should be 
dropped. So now, whoever the guilty party may be, he 
may rest in peace, so far at least as man’s punishment is 
concerned ; the matter lies between himself now and his 
God alone ! ” 

How solemnly he said it, and how keenly he watched 
that pale, beautiful face before him, to note if its pallor 
deepened, or if the woman’s heart that must inform that 
fender, thoughtful gaze would not proclaim her guilt or 
her innocence. 


66 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


“I wonder where Gregory is ? ” she said, not tenderly, 
nor yet unkindly, simply inquiringly. 

“Do you long so for his return?” asked Gregory’s 
friend, perfectly conscious of a fierce spasm of jealousy. 

“ No,” said Kate, with the utmost calmness, “ I do not. 
For his desertion of me and of his child was altogether 
independent of this tragedy, so far at least as he has 
seen fit to assign any reason for an act totally without 
the pale of reason. That I never can, I never will for- 
give. But I wondered why you should so peremptorily 
refuse credence to a paragraph that had the power to 
- shake me like some hideous nightmare. It is a great 
thing to be a man. I mean a cool, calm, brain-ready 
man, who can bring his reason to bear at a moment’s 
notice upon the improbable points of an assertion, 
instead of a foolish, hysterical woman, always ready to 
accept the improbable and believe the worst.” 

“Especially,” says the lawyer, smiling, “if the 
‘ improbable ’ is couched in long primer and a woman’s 
affections are involved. It is amazing the ready credence 
we yield any printed statement. You have been dis- 
quieting yourself in vain over a purely sensational 
paragraph. ‘ Read that — pity me, and tell me what to 
do,’ was your triple command. I have read that, and 
dis})osed of it satisfactorily, I hope. Pity you for your 
dreary isolation when you should be adorning society, I 
do. Tell you what to do ? How can I, when my advice 
would be thrown back at me with regal scorn ? ” 

“ How do you know it would ? ” asks Catherine, with a 
flash of her white teeth and a saucy glance from big 
l)rown eyes. 

He had dispelled the shadows, lightened her heart, and 
she felt, oh, so grateful to him. Then she blushed rosy 
red, and grew handsomer in her visitor’s eyes with every 
blush. These two had not seen each other since that 
day, now two months gone, when they had discussed 
trade and finance with the matter-of-fact precision of 
two coal merchants or wholesale grocers. Mr. Gorham 
had indicated the amount of capital at her command, 
and Mrs. Kendall had notified him of certain sight- 
drafts she had drawn upon him ! He had consented to 
be her banker, had passed some well-worn comments on 


SUI^SBINE AND MR. GORHAM. 


6 ^ 


the weather of to-day and the probabilities of to-morrow, 
and gone away. Mrs. Kendall, of course, had been 
powerless to bring about any more meetings had she 
desired to do so. She had ceased expecting him, having 
now been in her new location some weeks. Now that he 
had put her in the way of keeping herself and child from 
want, she reasoned, he had discharged his duty to his 
friend and gone back to his law work, his social duties in 
the circles of wealth and fashion, his routine of brain 
labor, and leisurely pursuit of worldly enjoyment, wiping 
the whole Kendall family out of his very recollection. 
So, what between her surprise and pleasure and con- 
fusion, she had thrown more warmth into her greeting 
than she was quite aware of. 

Before he had come, sitting there brooding in the 
horrible stillness of the house, every painful recollection 
of her life had mustered to haunt her ; then that cruel 
paragraph had plunged her into keener depths of misery 
than she had ever yet been called upon to fathom. 

As for the pallor and the dewy eyelids and the flush of 
eager welcome, that had set the lawyer’s calm pulses 
bounding so hotly, any one whom she had found on the 
outside of that door would have been the recipient of 
them as the thrice welcome dispeller of gloom and 
shadow. 

Happily Mr. Gorham did not know all this, and it was 
not difficult for him (being a very handsome man, not at 
all unused to welcoming glances from brilliant eyes) to 
see in it only the unmistakable indications of a pleasure 
too great to be hidden. 

Mr. Gorham had purposely staid away from “ Shrop- 
shire’s Stand,” actuated by motives of a somewhat mixed 
character. This “ woman’s freak ” of hers (as he termed 
Mrs. Kendall’s commercial venture with more truth than 
gallantry) would wear herself out with her first year’s 
lease of the store, if not sooner. Then, when she was 
most despairing of her own self-guidance, he would step 
forward with new plans and fresh advice with better 
likelihood of managing her. In the mean time, he would 
throw her altogether upon her own resources and 
judgment, the quicker to tire out that bravely indepen- 
dent spirit of hers. “Bravely independent spirits,” Mr. 


68 


7'HE SILENT WITNESS. 


Gorham did not think altogether desirable in so 
handsome a woman. Had Catherine been homely, or 
personally disagreeable to him in any way, I trow 
the lawyer would have considered her self-reliant 
spirit altogether commendable, and hailed it with 
delight. 

That was one motive for his prolonged abstinence from 
the society of Gregory’s fascinating wife. Again, he had 
not been making a study of the human heart with all its 
sinuous workings and dark deceits for a score of years, 
to be surprised into real or pretended ignorance of his 
own. At the close of his second interview with Cather- 
ine Kendall, he had gone back to his elegant bachelor 
apartments, instead of seeking the gay companionship of 
his club-mates (as was his custom at that hour), and 
fallen into a reverie ! How easy for fancy to people our 
homes and fill our souls with infinite content ! Fancy 
peopled Mr. Gorham’s big rooms with a brown-eyed 
Juno wife, whose regal beauty was all the more regal for 
its proper setting of luxury and splendor. Catherine 
Kendall poor, was simply Catherine Kendall undeveloped. 
For Mr. Gorham held (and wisely, I think), that poverty 
was a sort of black frost that killed the very germ of its 
victim’s best moral, mental and physical possibilities. 
He was perfectly and calmly aware that Gregory’s wife 
had touched a chord within his bosom that he was sur- 
prised to find responsive to any woman’s touch. Never 
having been in love (counting out one half-forgotten 
boyish romance), as people called it, he had come to look 
upon falling in love as one of that class of maladies, such 
as whooping-cough, mumps or measles, which, if escaped 
in the earlier stages of existence, are scarcely likely to 
attack one later in life. He had never been that abnor- 
mal thing — a woman-hater ; he had simply been altoge- 
ther indifferent to the sex, as much from lack of time to 
cultivate them as from any other cause. Money had not 
been his god, as envy calumniously asserted, but he held 
that any man who despised money as the only lever that 
could move the world, was a poor, blind imbecile, incap- 
able of using that lever if put in his hands. He wished 
to be a power among men. Money is power. There- 
fore to the accumulation of money he had bent his strong 


SUNSHINE AND MR. GORHAM. 69 

will, exercised his cool head, ignored the softer require- 
ments of his nature, and — succeeded. 

It is possible that had Catherine Kendall never crossed 
his path, he would eventually have married for the sake 
of a more convenient and fuller home-life, but never for 
love. He had even gone so far as to regard Mrs. Lilie 
Melmont as the possible recipient, in a not far distant 
future, of a calm, dispassionate proposal from him. At 
last fire had been struck from the flint ! But of what avail ? 
He was fully conscious that he wished he was at liberty 
to tell Catherine Kendall that he loved her and would 
gladly make her his wife in spite of everything ; loved 
her in spite of the dark shadow of suspicion that hovered 
over her life ; loved her in spite of the unraveled mystery 
of Spencer Whitehurst’s death. He was fully conscious 
that should Gregory Kendall never return from exile he 
would certainly tell her so, when the right time should 
come. Also, conscious that he would not be inconsolable 
should that unfortunate young man complete the list of 
misfortunes by quietly dying out yonder and ceasing 
from troubling. Fully conscious, furthermore, that he 
had not been holding himself heart, brain and body well in 
hand all these years, to lose command of himself at the bid- 
ding of a bright brown eye or the flash of a dazzling smile. 

Carrying about with him these internal fires, is it mat- 
ter of wonder that Mrs. Kendall’s more than cordial 
welcome made the smothered flames leap and blaze in 
two red spots upon the pure olive of his cheeks ? Out- 
wardly he was the same cool, collected, calm-eyed man 
of brains that Catherine had found awaiting her in her 
own parlor, when she had requested that first interview 
with Gregory’s friend. Conversation flagged a little, 
after the emotional opening of their interview, for Cath- 
erine had lost sight of the world to which he belonged, 
and he steadfastly ignored the shop-world to which she had 
so willfully attached herself. At least he desired to ignore 
it, for it filled him with disgust to think of her in connec- 
tion with the counter, but she forced him into the hated 
topic by a direct piece of bravado, saying: 

“You have never honored us with your custom, Mr. 
Gorham. We anticipated our largest returns from your 
liberal patronage.’’ 


70 


THE silent Witness. 


“ I am sorry any of Mrs. Kendall’s pleasurable antici- 
pations should fail to be realized, but I have seen no cause 
to change my stationer,” said the lawyer, frigidly. 

Catherine laughed and retorted : 

“ Nor are you in the least anxious to see Shropshire’s 
Stand succeed.” 

“ I am not. I should infinitely prefer seeing it fail, as 
you well know, having disapproved of it from the outset. 
But I did not call to open old issues. Tell me of your- 
self and the little Rosa.” 

“ Rosa is well enough. She is in perfect health, has 
plenty to eat, and sleeps well, and belongs to that blessed 
period of her existence when those things sum up all 
desire. As for myself, what is there to tell you ?” she 
said, with a wistful look up into his face. “ I work all 
day quite hard enough to keep me from thinking, which 
is the best form of happiness possible under some cir- 
cumstances. When the shop is closed for the day, and 
Rosa sound asleep, I write, while my faithful Betty sews 
by the same table and the same lamp. The papers print 
my articles, but pay me nothing for them, considering 
the honor of appearing in their columns remuneration 
ample, I suppose, for an obscure scribbler like — myself.” 

“If I mistake not,” Mr. Gorham said, “you wxre 
about to mention your nom de plujiie^ but substituted for 
it ‘ myself.’ ” 

“You are not mistaken,” Catherine frankly answered. 
“ I know you would sneer at my effusions as you sneer 
at my other feeble efforts at self-maintenance. You are 
well known to entertain the poorest conceivable opinion 
of woman and woman’s work.” 

How he would have liked to fold his arms about her 
then and there and tell her in a few burning words what 
he really did think of one woman in the world — his one 
love ! his true affinity ! his unattainable bride ! But he 
simply answered, with that frozen smile of his : 

“ If, as you tell me, I am ‘well known,’ I might wish 
I were more correctly known ; but let that pass, and go 
on with your home record. Poor as my opinion of 
woman and woman’s work is declared to be, you see I 
am greedy of every item concerning one woman.” 

“Yes,” she said, with a flash, “you have your friend’s 


SUNSHINE AND ME. GORHAM. 1i 

interest so nearly at heart that you fear the woman who 
brought all this misery upon him may — ” She stopped, 
covered with blushes and confusion. 

“ Brought all this misery upon him ? ” Mr. Gorham 
repeated her words, inquiringly. 

He was vvell aware that Gregory had jealously kept 
his wife’s name out of that whole miserable confession, 
falsely assigning business difficulties as the basis of the 
rupture between him and his one-time friend. Could 
she have heard direct from Gregory ? It was to settle 
this point that he held her with that steady gaze, erro- 
neously believing that he could satisfy his own misgivings 
without any direct questions. 

Catherine grew restive under his eye. She was aware 
she had spoken foolishly, pettishly, more like a sulky 
child than a woman of sense. And to this stern, grave 
man whose good opinion was of such vital importance 
to her ! 

“ Let that pass ! ” she said, pleadingly. “ I begin to 
think that association with Betty and Rosa alone, is 
making me as simple as the one and as childish as the 
other.” 

“ And those two constitute all your society ? ” Mr. 
Gorham asked, with mingled solicitude and jealous 
curiosity. 

“All! Absolutely all! Do you wonder that I am 
growing dull of conception, careless of speech, and a 
dowd in appearance ” (she contemptuously touched the 
dark-blue morning wrapper she still wore). “What thought 
greets my thoughts ? VVhat speech answers mine ? For 
whom should I beautify myself? Tell me,” she added, 
quickly, seized by an ungovernable longing to enter 
again her woman’s kingdom of pleasure and companion- 
ship and triumph, “how long is this farce of Gregory’s 
to be kept up ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you. Is that the trouble ? Are you 
too devoted to the memory of a happy past to permit 
yourself the innocent recreations absolutely necessary 
for the welfare of your mind and body ?” There was a 
scoff in his eye and voice. “ If anything should happen 
to Gregory out yonder, I am afraid we should have you 
disappearing from our sight in the smoke of the suttee.’* 


72 


THE SILEHT WITNESS. 


“ You do me more than justice,” Catherine answered, 
with quiet dignity, “ in accrediting me with so many 
good and wifely qualities. I am afraid my inquiry sprang 
more from restless misery and self-pity than from any 
better motive. I do not care to waste my whole exis- 
tence in a vain struggle to adjust the inadjustable. If 
Gregory finds life with me insupportable, it would be 
more manly to free us both from the hated bond, not fly 
its pains and responsibilities thus selfishly.” 

Supreme as was the egotistic selfishness of this reply, 
Mr. Gorham was evidently relieved by it. He had 
known before that she was not of the ordinary type of 
woman ! amiable, self-abnegatory, unselfish. He would 
have taken less interest in her had she been. She was 
altogether unique. Honest in her self-appreciation, glit- 
tering in her egotism, pardonable in her restlessness 
under the yoke that galled. “ A superb creature almost 
spoiled by poverty and Gregory Kendall,” he decided 
mentally. 

Ignoring the ethics of her last remarks, Mr. Gorham, 
with grave kindness, resumed the subject of her social 
i.solation. 

“ As Gregory’s best friend, I constitute myself the 
guardian of his best treasures. I shall take it upon my- 
self to see that you do not abide so persistently in gloom 
and loneliness. Some sunshine shall fall into your life 
at least upon your days of rest. You must consent to 
place your Sundays at my disposal.” 

Stepping fearlessly upon dangerous ground, Catherine 
consented gladly and gratefully. And before he left 
her, Mr. Gorham had planned that the next Lord’s Day 
should be a day of pleasure for her, for Rosa, and — 
himself. 


CHAPTER IX. 

AS THE DAY.S GO GLIDING BY. 

I F in his self-communings about this trouble, Hugh 
Gorham was ever tempted to institute a comparison 
between himself and a certain Biblical sinner, whom 
we are requested to believe was a man after God’s own 


A S THE DA VS GO GLIDING B V. 


73 


heart, he could reflect with satisfaction tliat when Gre- 
gory Kendall went into exile by legal advice, his legal 
adviser had never seen his wife. 

Nor had he been puissant enough to order those fierce 
captains ill-luck and persecution to place him to the fore 
in life’s hot battle. For aught he knew of his old fag’s 
movements since his departure, Grego^ry Kendall might 
be waxing strong and wealthy in those far distant parts. 

There had been nothing underhanded, no deceit in 
the advice then given. He only regretted that, while 
only half understanding the occasion of it, he had al- 
lowed Gregory to extort from him a binding promise of 
secrecy concerning his own participation in or knowl- 
edge of the unhappy man’s movements. 

“ It is my desire, Hugh,” he had said, pleadingly, 
“ that the responsibility of my departure shall rest exclu- 
sively with myself. Befriend my wife and child volun- 
tarily, claiming the right so to do as my oldest and best 
friend.” 

To which the lawyer had assented. 

The mental process in Kendall’s mind at which he 
could not guess, was this : Should the time ever come 
when this hideous mystery shall be cleared up, and my 
darling proven white as snow, she must never know that 
my absence was anything but a crazed freak. She would 
never forgive the taking a third party into confidence. 

Upon his first interview with Catherine, the lawyer had 
been more that ever impressed with the utter uselessness 
of excluding her from their confidence. 

“ She is strong and resolute and trustworthy. I doubt if 
Gregory Kendall was capable of appreciating her strongest 
points. But I have promised. And until some definite 
news comes from Gregory, I shall abide by my promise,” 
was his mental resolution. 

But month after month rolled by and no tidings from 
Gregory Kendall came back to his friends. 

Mr. Gorham, after waiting a more than reasonable time 
for an answer to his prompt recall, wrote to the friend in 
Rio Janeiro to whom he had given “ Maurice Raymond ” 
letters of introduction, and had been informed, by due 
course of mail, that no such person and no such letters 
had ever come to hand. On the return to port of the 


74 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


vessel that had borne Gregory into exile, Gregory’s friend 
had taken the trouble personally to interview her officers, 
to learn, if possible what had become of him. No one 
could give him accurate information. The purser re- 
called the fact, that when touching at Florida Key, con- 
trary to the ship’s custom and expectation when leaving 
port, three young men had left the vessel to go ashore 
sight-seeing, only one of whom had returned. 'I'he other 
two, he had reported, had concluded to start upon a 
pedestriai^i search after business or fortune. Maurice 
Raymond might or might not have been one of those two. 

Mr. Gorham never once thought of carrying these tan- 
talizing fragments to Gregory’s wife. She had made up 
her mind to the fact that in a fit of total unreasonable- 
ness, her husband had taken his departure without the 
formality of an “adieu.” Uncomfortable as her situation 
was, there was no way of bettering it just yet. 

So the days went gliding by. 

The business at Shropshire’s Stand settled into a 
modestly remunerative concern, becoming better sys- 
tematized gradually, and giving Mrs. Kendall more 
time to prosecute her literary labors, leaving to honest 
Betty most of the shop attendance. 

Six days of the week they were sure of one unfailing 
customer : An elderly man, of stately bearing, with silver- 
ing hair and keen blue eyes, came regularly to the humble 
little counter, where he purchased liberally of articles 
which made Betty wonder in her strictly practical soul, 
to what use he could possibly put them ; “ Less’n ” she 
eagerly remarked, “ he’s a-countin’ on another flood, and 
he’s making a collection of all sorts to preserve in a new 
Noah’s Ark for specimens to start the next set of folks.” 

“ Possibly ! ” Catherine assented, absently for she was 
plunging through the labyrinthine intricacies of her first 
novel, in which things had become so helplessly entangled 
that her hero seemed bent upon matrimony with his own 
mother-in-law, and she found her paper folks sadly un- 
manageable. 

Catherine called the elderly man the Providence of 
Shropshire Stand, who gave them their daily bread. 

He invariably bowed courteously to Betsy, who always 
waited upon him ; patted Rosa patronizingly upon the 


AS THE DAYS GO GLIDING BY. 


75 


head ; glanced wistfully about the little shop until he 
discovered Kate’s whereabouts : satisfied his soul with a 
respectful gaze at the charming head and figure bent in 
studying absorption over a desk in the rear of the little 
shop ; made his heterogeneous purchases, and went away. 

Then Mrs. Kendall’s studious head would be turned 
quickly towards Betty, and she would ask, with a laugh : 

“Well, Betty, what cargo for the Ark to-day ?’’ 

“ Two dozen glass marbles and a transpayrint slate.” 

“ Betty, that man means something. He does not come 
here every day just to buy of uS — either for charity’s 
sake, or because he wants marbles or transparent slates 
and sealing-wax by the wholesale.” 

When Betty would answer : 

“ If he was the ole gentlemin hisself. Miss Kate, horns, 
clovin-foot and all, we couldn’t afford to shet the door in 
the face of such a customer. A dollar and a half is a 
dollar a half.” 

As Mrs. Kendall could neither refute Betty’s logic nor 
deny the correctness of her calculation, Betty would 
have the last word. 

With the seventh day of the week came Mr. Gorham, 
always with some pleasant suggestion for disposing of 
her Sunday afternoons, brightening the outlook for 
Catherine and strengthening her for fresh labor by a 
sense of sympathy and intelligent companionship, with 
the comforting assurance that what she did and said, 
what she enjoyed and endured, was of some moment to 
least one sentient being many degrees higher in the scale 
of intellect than Betty or Rosa — yes, and, alas ! than Gre- 
gory Kendall. 

So the days went gliding by, in which Hugh Gorham 
seemed to be leading two lives utterly distinct and apart 
from each other. One life — a busy, passionless existence, 
in which he pursued the even tenor of the ways he had 
gone in for many years — a money-making, brain-exercis- 
ing life, with its old routine of intellectual and social re- 
creations, inclusive of a steady, placid round of visits in 
the fashionable salons, where he always met Mrs. Rox- 
bury Mandeville and her bewildering sister, Mrs. Lilie 
Melmont, to whom he paid languid homage, as much 
from lack of entertainment as anything else, not being 


76 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


ignorant that Rumor had already kindly taken in hand 
all the initial arrangements of his espousals to the hand- 
some widow. 

Another life — short of duration, but so vivid of coloring, 
so intense in enjoyableness, that it seemed after all his 
only true life. 

For it was only when in the presence of Gregory Ken- 
dall’s wife that Mr. Gorham felt he had a soul — a soul to 
suffer, to enjoy, to endure ! 

The year was growing old ! They had planted violets 
over Spencer Whitehurst’s grave that had blossomed and 
faded. And the leaves were falling silently from the 
starry jasmine. That was the last thing that Gregory’s 
yearning eyes had rested upon when he passed from 
under the portico of the little cottage he had brought his 
bride to such a feverishly short while before. The days 
when excursions to the water-side, or parks, or fruit- 
farms, would be the thing, would soon be over now, Mr. 
Gorham thought, with a pang. Almost a whole year 
since his old fag’s departure, and not a line or word to 
tell of his life or death ! Almost a whole year, and Cath- 
erine’s isolation from the world was still unbroken and 
complete. The few honest neighbors who called upon 
her belonged to the shop-world. Their visits were left 
unreturned, and she was left to her loneliness. 

One mild Saturday, mindful of the fleeting nature of 
autumnal mildness, Mr. Gorham, despite his well-kept 
resolution never to incur the risk of seeing Catherine 
behind the counter, by visiting Shropshire Stand during 
the week, concluded that he must go to amend his 
arrangements for the Sunday. Rosa was looking pale. 
He wanted to suggest an early start for a distant dairy 
farm the next morning. 

At the door of the little shop, evidently having the 
same goal in view as himself, Mr. Gorham met the 
“ Providence of Shropshire’s Stand.” 

The two men stared, bowed, and entered the little 
book-store neck and neck. Mr. Gorham looked around 
with some surprise but entire satisfaction, — Mrs. Kendall 
was nowhere to be seen. 

The elderly gentleman looked around with some surprise 
and keenest disappointment, for the very same reason. 


AS THE DAYS GO GLIDING BY. 77 

A young man, very slim about the waist, very red 
about the face, with huge black freckles dispensed with 
impartial liberality over his face, neck and hands, stepped 
forward with impetuous alacrity. 

“ Morning gents ! Show you anything ? Paper? bes’ 
an’ cheap’st in th’ market ! Inkstands ? warranted never 
to upset ! Books ? all kinds — schoolbooks, geographies, 
his’tries, rithymetickers, lates’ novils, prayer-books, purty 
enough to convert Captain Jack hisself ! Show you any- 
thing, gents ? No charge for showin’.” 

The volubility with which the red-haired young man 
rattled off this seductive invitation to purchase, would 
have made the reputation of a first-class auctioneer — the 
absence of three front teeth proving no impediment what- 
ever to the flow of his commercial eloquence. 

“ Where is — ah — where is Betty ? ” asked Mr. Gor- 
ham, skirmishing about his main inquiry. 

“ Ah, yes ! exactly, young man, where is the excellent 
young woman whose place you seem to be filling ?” asked 
the elderly gentleman. 

Mr. Gorham’s fine straight brows arched themselves in 
angry surprise at this echo of his own inquiry. 

“ Absent temp’rarily, sir, both honored sirs,” red-head 
answered, briskly. 

“ And — Mrs. Kendall ? ” pursued the lawyer, reluc- 
tantly calling her name in the presence of a shop-boy and 
an inquisitive old man. 

“ Also absent temp’rarily,” said the boy. 

“Absent ! ” Mr. Gorham said, incredulously. 

“Absent ! ” echoed Shropshire’s Providence, distress- 
fully. 

“ Only temp’rarily, gents, only temp’rarily, for a few 
days, or p’haps weeks, or possibly months, I should say,” 
the new storekeeper says, reassuringly. 

■“ Do you mean absent from the city, young man?” 
asked the lawyer, now too much agitated to notice the 
strange behavior of the elderly man, who had sunk upon 
a store stool and dropped his head upon his cane, like a 
man stunned by a sudden blow. 

“I mean egzactly that, sir.” 

“ And what are you doing here ? ” 

“ Trying to make a trade with two gents as seems mos’ 


78 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


uncommon indifferent to all the lovely things about ’em,” 
he answered, with a grin. 

“ Are you keeping this store now ? ” 

“ Temp’rarily, sir, only temp’rarily.” 

“Until when ?” asks Mr. Gorham, craftily. 

“ Until the madame and my sister Betty gets back.” 

“You are Betty’s brother, then ? ” 

“ Egzactly.” 

“ And they have left you in charge ? ” 

“ Egzactly.” 

“You have no idea of their destination ? ” 

“ Which, sir ? ” 

“ No idea where they have gone ! ” 

“ No more, sir, than you or the old boss yonder. 
Hillo ! sick, sir ? ” 

The latter part of this sentence was addressed to the 
elderly gentleman, who had raised his head to listen to 
this colloquy, and displayed a most distressed counten- 
ance. 

“ No,” he answered, with stately suavity; “ I am quite 
well, I thank you. May I inquire if you are perfectly 
certain the lady’s absence is only — ” 

“Temp’rary, sir, temp’rary, quite sure; sorry I can’t 
show you gents anything this morning — g’ographies, 
rithmy — sc use me ! ” With which he darted towards the 
other end of the counter where stood a customer, who 
probably meant business, leaving his two unprofitable 
visitors to ponder over this great surprise at their leisure. 

What did it mean ? Could Gregory Kendall have re- 
turned since the last Lord’s Day, and still fearful of pub- 
lic opinion, stolen away with his wife and child like a 
thief in the night ? Or had he written and she had flown 
to him, without one word, one line to the man who had 
befriended her through the darkest period of her exist- 
ence ! Did this boy know nothing of her movements, or 
was he pledged to silence ? 

It was all so dark and mysterious that Mr. Gorham 
waxed angrily resentful. No one else being at hand, he 
emptied the vials of his wrath upon the unoffending head 
of Shropshire’s Providence with finite justice. 

“ Sir,” he asked, turning with sudden fierceness toward 
the stool where the elderly gentleman still sat, leaning 


AS THE DAYS CO GLIDING BY. 


79 


his chin meditatively upon his folded hands as they 
rested upon the heavy gold head of his cane, “ I hope I 
am not transcending the limits of gentlemanly courtesy, 
in inquiring why you seemed so evidently shaken by the 
information this young man has just given me 7 ” 

“ I hope, sir,” was the quietly given reply, “ that you 
will not consider me lacking in gentlemanly courtesy, if 
I decline to answer your inquiry, not recognizing any 
right on your part to question my words, my looks, or 
my actions.” 

Mr. Gorham flushed darkly as he retorted : 

“ I am the lady’s legal adviser, and in some sort her 
guardian. Is that not sufficient authority for asking the 
question you are evidently disposed to consider imper- 
tinent? ” 

“ It certainly does lessen the presumption of your 
inquiry, but renders it none the more obligatory upon 
me to explain why the young man’s information has 
undoubtedly both surprised and distressed me. I am, 
in some sort, this lady’s friend, and where I am concerned 
she is never likely to require the services of a guardian.” 

The retort courteous given with the utmost neatness, 
thought Mr. Gorham — “in some sort her friend” — as he 
recalled that expression his anger and resentment burned 
hotter and fiercer against Catherine, himself, and this 
white-haired interloper. He wished that the stranger 
would go away so that he might interrogate Betty’s 
brother a little closer. He was resolved to know all that 
the boy knew before returning to his office. 

The stranger was wishing precisely the same thing 
from a similar motive. 

Then both had recourse to stratagem. 

Mr. Gorham turned to leave the store, and Shropshire’s 
Providence, grown suddenly indifferent to marbles, seal- 
ing-wax, and all the other pretexts scattered about, rose 
too, apparently for the same purpose. Stopping in front 
of Mr. Gorham, he raised his hat with courtly politeness, 
and extending a card, remarked : 

“ Should you find, sir, that you desire any further 
parley with me, by calling at the Belmont House and 
inquiring for me by the name on that card, you can have 
full satisfactioii concerning anything you have a ri^ht 


8o 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


to inquire into.” Having cast this Parthian dart, he 
leisurely buttoned his coat over his broad, full chest, and 
stiffly bowed himself out of the precincts of Shropshire’s 
Stand. 

Mr. Gorman glanced with some curiosity at the card 
left in his hands. It was not a business card, nor did it 
indicate a local habitation, only a name — and that simply 
traced in pencil marks on a plain white parallelogram : 
‘‘ Colonel Ethan Haversham.” 

Mr. Gorham turned abruptly upon his heel and took 
the opposite direction. 

Who in the world was Colonel Ethan Haversham, and 
what in the deuce was Catherine Kendall up to now ? 
Those two angry interrogatories filled his wondering 
brain to the exclusion of every other consideration. 

Walking aimlessly about the square for some twenty 
minutes, he wandered restlessly back towards the open 
door of Shropshire’s Stand. 

At last he would have an opportunity to cross-examine 
Betty’s brother to his heart’s content. Alas ! for human 
calculations ! he was just facing the open window, when 
the brisk voice of Freckleface floated out to him : 

“ Only temp’rarily, sir ; only temp’rarily. Show you 
anything, sir ? ” 

One savage look into the store showed Mr. Gorham 
that he had been flanked, and, whirling so suddenly that 
his boot-heel ground a little circle in the pavement, he 
left Colonel Ethan Haversham in possession of the field. 


CHAPTER X. 

A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND. 

I N one of the roughest and wildest counties of Texas, 
close to heir unquiet border, a gloomily dense forest 
stretched its dismal length miles upon miles, many 
years ago. 

To the eye of a traveler fresh from Eastern civilization 
and those refinements of luxury that are the handmaidens 
pf progress and wealth, this region would seem totally 


A STI^AN-GER /AT A STRANGE LAND. 


8l 


uninhabitable for human beings. But, that human beings 
did move and live and have their being with a certain 
degree of semi-barbaric content, within sound of those 
ever-sighing pine branches, was testified to by the poverty- 
stricken homesteads that crouched here and there under 
its perpetual shadow. 

Homesteads in name, miserable barns in reality. 
Un painted and roughly clapboarded ; unglazed win- 
dows, with plank shutters swinging recklessly on one 
rusty hinge ; a wilderness of weeds crowding insolently 
close about the time-sunken steps ; cattle stepping con- 
temptuously over the tumble-down, worn fences ; a few 
seedy heads of “ collards ” and a perfect forest of mustard 
in yellow blossom ; a dejected calf or two, penned for- 
lornly into an angle of a crazy fence — are scarcely the 
outward and visible signs of inward and superabundant 
wealth ; but in such wealth, as thousands of salable 
beeves, with the accompanying revenue from tallow and 
hides and horns, did the lords of these rickety manors 
abound. 

Within stone’s throw of one of these dreary Western 
domiciles, close to the edge of the gloomy forest shadows, 
his arms drawn behind him and bound by knotted ends 
to the unyielding stem of a slender sapling, Maurice 
Raymond watched the sun sinking slowly, but inexorably, 
behind the lofty crests of the pine-trees — watched it with 
a calmness born of unutterable despair, and when the 
last rays had faded from the last glittering pine-needle, 
the shadow of fast-coming death seemed to settle coldly 
upon his tried, weary soul, as surely as the shadows of 
the fast-coming night were settling upon the darkening 
world. 

“ They will come soon now,” he sighed, and that will 
be the end of it ! The end of earth ! the end of life ! 
the end of hope, of joy, and of suffering ! shot for a 
horse-thief ! Bah ! the ignominy of it ! Thrown into a 
felon’s grave, perhaps, or left, more likely, for the carrion 
crow to fatten on as my bleaching bones point a moral 
without adorning a tale.” 

A harsh, mirthless laugh of ghastly irony parted his 
bloodless lips, finding its echo in the shrill, startled 
scream of a screech-owl, that, rejoicing in the deepening 


82 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


shadows and fast-gathering blackness of night, sped 
upwards from its day-trance and fanned his hot forehead 
with its flapping wings. 

“ Oh, mother ! mother ! ” cried the unhappy man, 
“ could you have foreseen this hour, how gladly you would 
have twined your tender hands about my baby throat 
and strangled me at my birth ! Oh, the woe and the 
shame and the suffering you would have saved me ! 
Dead in my cradle I would never have known her — -Cath- 
erine! the life of my heart, the death of my soul 1 ” 

Above his bowed head, pinned to the sapling by a 
long, sharp thorn, was this roughly lettered scrawl: 

“Any and all good cityzins pasingthis way, is hereby warned agin 
liberatin this prisner. We, the undersined, havin left him bound, 
wiles we goes in search of his pardner. He is a hossthief took in pos- 
seshun of Robert Andersons blaze-face bay mar, to which we here- 
under do set our sines and seels in certyficashun. Dick Thurman, 
Henry Bellman, Robert Anderson, and a let of other law abidin 
fellers.” 

And the doomed Maurice Raymond awaited the re- 
turn of his tormentors. They had granted him ample time 
for reflection, since they had bound him and galloped off 
in search of his comrade. Not a human being had passed 
within range of his vision or within sound of his voice 
the whole dismal day. 

He had watched them rapidly disappearing from view 
down the narrow wagon-road, the dust rising in clouds 
behind their wiry little ponies before settling in a golden 
fog beneath the noon-day beams of the sun, which only 
from its zenith point of vantage could penetrate the close 
set ranks of the trees. Then all the heart that was left 
him concentrated itself upon one desire. He wished he 
had the means of self-destruction in his hands. 

But they had bound him too securely for the gratifica- 
tion of even that forlorn wish. Retrospection v^asall that 
was left him of life. His present was a blank — future, he 
had none. 

Retrospection halted at one dark picture in the not far 
distant past ; beyond that, into a brighter past, his mental 
vision seldom ever strayed nowadays ; that one picture, 
hideously distinct, black of coloring, painted in never- 
fading characters, filled all that past. 


A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND. 




“ It was the morning of Spencer Whitehurst’s death. 
He, Gregory Kendall, had left his own home blithely 
bent upon prosecuting his business projects to a certain 
point that day. Spencer Whitehurst was the landlord of 
a certain corner store that he had long coveted possession 
of. A sight of the desirable property made him resolve 
that as soon as thing were well under way at the “ shop” 
that morning, he would take time to personally interview 
Dr. Whitehurst touching this matter. Things would have 
permitted his absence early that morning, but a heavy 
shower kept him back till near noon. Then he went. 
Turning the corner that first brought him in view of the 
chemist’s office he saw a sight that was stamped on his 
brain for ever after. Her back towards him, nervously fit- 
ting a latch-key into the office-door, stood Catherine Ken- 
dall, his own wife! True, he did not see her face, but there 
was no mistaking that regal form, clad in a dark-gray 
cashmere of his own choosing, with the crape scarf to 
match that he knew so well. Only a fleeting glimpse of 
the well-known figure, — then she flitted noiselessly though 
the door, that closed behind her as noiselessly, leaving 
Gregory Kendall petrified for a second with amazement, 
blind rage, and frenzied humiliation. 

He had known that Spencer Whitehurst in the long 
time ago had loved and wooed his wife ; knew that 
she had rejected him ; knew that, on the score of a 
distant cousinship, friendly intercourse had always been 
maintained between them. Had she told him that morn- 
ing that it was probable she would go to Mrs. White- 
hurst’s during the day, nothing would have seemed to 
him less objectionable or more natural. But she had 
made no such mention, yet here, familiarly admitting 
herself, not by the door that led to the mother’s up-stairs 
apartments, but by the office-door of an avowed lady- 
killer and libertine, he found his wife ! 

There was but one thing to do ! That one thing he 
could not do unarmed ! Returning the way he had 
come, he re-entered his own place of business quietly, 
just as usual to all appearances, save a murderous glit- 
ter in his eye and a ghastly pallor all over his face. Pos- 
sessing himself of a trusty weapon, he buttoned it into 
his breast-pocket and at once returned to the chemist’s, 


84 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


Luck favored him. As he raised his hand to ring the 
bell, he noticed that the door was already ajar. He, 
too, admitted himself as far as the hall of the chemist’s 
office ; through the half-glass door that impeded his pro- 
gress on the right, he saw for the first time that hideous 
picture that was to haunt him into his grave. Stand- 
ing close to the door, her back to him just as she had 
entered the room, stood the gray-clad form of his wife ! 
In her right hand, now hanging listlessly by her side, 
was grasped a tiny pistol. Opposite her, his head fal- 
len on his desk, his shapely hands clasped in the death- 
agony above his head, sat Spencer Whitehurst, while a 
dark pool of his life’s-blood slowly widened and spread 
on the carpet beneath his desk — as still as the murdered 
man, stood the gray-clad form of the woman just within 
the den. Not the heaving of a sigh, not the flutter of a 
ribbon bespoke her more capable of motion than the 
man yonder at the desk — so white, so still, so ghastly ! 
One second of horrified contemplation, then Gregory 
Kendall stole breathlessly away. Her preservation was 
all his thought. The woman who bore his name, the 
mother of his child, must be shielded from public shame ! 

Back to his place of business, with all the furies of 
hell gnawing at his vitals, he had forced himself to go 
and to attend his every-day avocations as usual. Not 
a second before his usual hour of leaving the store did 
he permit himself to depart. Once at home, he could 
better think over this horror and devise a plan of action. 
One resolution had already shaped itself in his half- 
crazed brain. She should never know that he had been 
an eye-witness of her crime. Receive her as his wife 
again ? Never ! He would shield her from the conse- 
quences of her deed, then leave her for ever. 

Betty had let him in ! She was devotion herself ; 
he could trust himself to ask her a few questions. 

“ Has your mistress been out to-day ? “ 

“ Yes, sir,” says Betty readily. 

“ Is she at home now ? “ 

“ Yes, sir ; and glad I am you’re at home yourself. 
Something’s wrong, sir. Miss Kate, she’s been locked 
into her room for the past two hours ; nor is it me, 
por the baby, she’ll let go in to her.” 


A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND. 85 


“Tell your mistress I am at home and am ready for 
my dinner,” he remembered ordering in his calmest 
manner. 

While pacing up and down the little room, waiting, 
his miserable imagination had conjured up everything 
in the past that could possibly have any bearing on the 
horrible tragedy on this morning. 

Once he heard her say, “ Talk of a woman’s being 
defenseless when her honor is concerned ! Should my 
honor ever call for it, I could find the nerve for trig- 
ger or stiletto ! ” And she had found the nerve ! 

How could he wait for her there, and calmly go 
through the choking farce of dining under the espion- 
age of servants, with his whole brain afire? He could 
not face her yet awhile ; he must have time to reflect ; 
he was not sufficiently master of himself. Rushing to 
his own room, he locked himself in, stubbornly refus- 
ing to admit her, when a very little while aiter she 
plead to him so piteously. Then she had gone away, 
and coming back presently, had slipped a piece of 
paper under his door, telling him of her summons to 
her father’s death-bed — and he had sent her away with 
his curse upon her ! That was the last glimpse of 
his wife the miserable man had had. 

Clinging madly to the hope that something would 
occur to prove him mistaken — that hope had died when, 
in the pocket of the gray cashmere, left carelessly hung 
upon its usual peg, he had found a tiny pistol, the fellow 
to the glove discovered by Detective Wilson, and the 
torn scraps of a letter written by Spencer Whitehurst. 

To recklessly bring suspicion on his own head, and 
then to go into exile, had been the only course open to 
the wretched husband. 

But never since that dread morning had memory 
found other food for contemplation. Bound there in 
that shadowy forest awaiting his own execution, he went 
over every detail of that morning ! He thought of that 
dead man — so much more to be envied in the peaceful 
quiet of his grass-grown grave than himself, a wifeless, 
childless exile ! a suspected outlaw about to die the 
death of a dog ! He thought of that ill-advised step of 
his ; leaving the ship in company with a man he had 


86 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


never seen before, whose oily tongue had made it appear 
that they two together could speedily and easily work 
their way to the mining Eldorados and blot out all that 
was dark and hideous in the past by a triumphant re- 
entrance to the world as millionaires. 

When life’s best aspirations prove but disappointing 
will-o’-the-wisps ; when love’s sweetest joys turn to bit- 
terness and nothingness ; when hope, whose eternal 
spring is but another name for youth’s bright elasticity, 
has slipped from our grasp ; and still the burden of 
life must be borne — we sweep and garnish the desolate 
mansion of our souls, and avarice enters into a life ten- 
antcy of chambers that erst held guests of noble mien. 
The last, the most enduring of human passions, is avarice. 

Affection betrayed, trust dead, hope a mockery ! Gre- 
gory Kendall found the greed of gain slowly but subtly 
diffusing itself through his veins, like a new life-current. 

So he cast behind him all Hugh Gorham’s good 
advice, lighted his pipe with the letters of introduction 
to that “ slow old fogy,” the South American coffee- 
merchant, and had cast in his fortunes with the silver- 
tongued stranger, and started in pursuit of wealth. 

What he was to do with all the money he was to accu- 
mulate so easily out yonder he never paused to consider; it 
was simply the pursuit of it that was to give him something 
better to do than to ruminate over a blood-curdling past. 

Months of privation were followed by sickness ; they 
had even put him ashore once from a Mississippi boat, 
at a woodman’s hut, to die. But, strange to say, he had 
not died, but had lived to resume his weary march west- 
ward, where he had rejoined his silver-tongued comrade, 
resumed his weary foot-journey until that morning his 
troubles had culminated in his arrest and accusation of 
horse-stealing, with the confident assurance that he 
should meet with merited punishment before another sun 
rose. 

In vain he protested that the sorry-looking beast 
upon which he had been captured had been sold 
to him that morning by a man who had stopped at 
the same tavern with him the night before, he and 
his partner having traded their watches for horses 
to expedite their arrival at the mining districts. His 


A STRAMGER IJV A STRAATGE LAND. 87 

assertions had been received with scoffing incredulity 
and himself left bound. 

Raising his bowed head from his unhappy bosom 
every little while, he strained his eyes along the hot, 
dusty road that wound like a soiled and faded ribbon 
through the gloomy woods. So weary was he of the griev- 
ous burden of his own sad thoughts, that he almost hoped 
he should see his tormentors returning. 

A dust ! Thank God, they were coming, whistling and 
singing blithely ! Rejoicing in the last vigor of life and 
freedom, gifts of which they were about so ruthlessly to 
rob a fellow-creature without show of justice or reason. 
They were coming ! He closed his eyes ! He had 
nothing more to say to them. He would not beg for his 
life. Let them end it as quickly as they chose. He 
could better bear the whistling of their bullets speeding 
straightway to his heart than to look again upon their 
mocking faces or listen to their brutal jests. 

The clatter of horses’ feet ceased close beside him, 
and he heard the animals heave their deep-chested sighs 
of satisfaction at the stoppage. 

Then, a low, angry growl sounding close at his feet, 
he started and opened his eyes, just as a girlish voice 
cried, shrilly, “ Down, Bose ! down, sir ! ” and a girlish 
hand brought a long leathern lash curling sharply about 
the huge head and flashing eyes of a murderous-looking 
mastiff. 

A group of tough little nags were complacently nibbl- 
ing the meager herbage that fringed the shaded roadside, 
upon one which sat a young girl, eyeing Gregory Ken- 
dall in a coolly investigating fashion, totally devoid of 
surprise or embarrassment. Her rustic, indeed almost 
wild, appearance bespoke her at once a native of this 
rudely inhospitable region. Her riding-skirt, of coarse 
blue cottonade, was too short to conceal the clumsy 
raw-hide shoe that rested lightly in the stirrup; but the 
foot it covered was small and arched, A bodice of red 
calico was laced about a full, voluptuous form that had 
never known steel or whalebone. Her short sleeves 
revealed a pair of plump white arms, tapering from their 
dimpled elbows down to a hand that, in spite of its dexter- 
ous use of the ox-goad, was both small and charmingly 


88 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


shaped. Hanging in heavy braids that touched her sad- 
dle-bow were two massive plaits of that ruddy-hued hair 
which is the usual accompaniment of the fairest com- 
plexion; and those tender eyes of dark-blue that seem to 
belong conjointly to babies and the angels. A coarse 
straw hat, originally manufactured for masculine wear, 
was tied under her dimpled chin by a band of rusty-black 
velvet ribbon. 

Despite her rough habiliments and almost savage inde- 
pendence, there was in the girl’s face a brightly winning 
look that made Maurice Raymond return her cool inspec- 
tion with a look of curiosity, and made him ask, presently, 
with a degree of interest that was scarcely to be expected 
of a man on the brink of eternity : 

“ Who are you ? ” 

“My name is Jessie Loring,” she answered promptly, 
with a friendly nod and smile. “ The boys round here 
calls me ‘ Prairie Princess,’ which don’t have much mean- 
ing nohow, you see, considerin’ I ain’t neither a prairie 
nor a princess. But who are you ? And what does that 
say ? ” she asked in her turn, pointing her long leather 
whip to the placard above his head on the tree. 

“Read it!’’ Maurice cried, angrily, resenting this 
gratuitous insult. “ It is written plainly enough, and 
although the orthography and chirography are not unex- 
ceptionable, I doubt not they are precisely what you will 
best appreciate.” 

“ Orthography, chirography, and appreciate,” being 
words far beyond the reach of poor Jessie’s benighted 
comprehension, the taunt was altogether thrown away 
upon her, but the flashing eyes and the flushed cheeks of 
the young man were plain enough reading. 

“ I didn’t mean to be rough on you,” she said, with 
exceeding gentleness (couching angelic pity in a vile 
local idiom). “ I want to help you, and I’ll do it, too, if 
you’ll just first make plain to me what the card says.” 

Pie looked at her in unbounded surprise. There was 
no mistaking the sweet, womanly sympathy that shone in 
the dark-blue eyes of this uncultured Texas girl. But 
why should she insist upon his reading to her that insult- 
ing libel upon his own character, when it was behind him 
and immediately in front of her ? 


A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LANE. 89 


“ Why do you not read it yourself ? ” he asked, rather 
interrogatively than angrily this time. 

“ Can’t.” 

“ Can not .? Why ?” 

“ Don’t know how. I can read printin’, though,” she 
added, proudly. 

“ It is English. At least Texas English, I suppose,” 
Maurice continued, sneeringly. 

“ But I tell you it bangs me here ! ” as, springing 
nimbly from her pony, she tore the placard from its 
fastenings, and held it in front of him. “ I’m not going 
to help nary scamp out of a scrape if I knows him for a 
scamp, But somehow you don’t look scampish. Read 
this, and if it ain’t a mighty convincin’ dockiment I’ll cut 
them cords and let you toddle.” 

Vile grammar and viler slang tripped as readily over 
Jessie’s pretty untutored lips as song notes from the 
throat of a mocking-bird. 

Surprise at the profound ignorance of this pretty 
savage being a minor consideration in view of his new- 
born hope of freedom, Maurice read the placard hastily, 
for every moment increased the imminence of his cap- 
tors’ return, and he doubted the omnipotence of the Prairie 
Princess. 

“ Dick Thurman ! did you say ?” she asked, her curly 
head bent attentively over the paper as he read it. 

“ Yes ; his is the first name.” 

“ Took you for a horse-thief, did they ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But you ain’t no such thing, are you ?” 

“ I certainly am not.” 

“ Swear-’fore-God ! Hope-you-may-die-in-your-tracks 
if you are ! and I’ll let you loose. Say : ‘ Hope I may ’ 
(Jessie pointed significantly to the bowels of the earth, 
watching the prisoner with eager scrutiny the while) if 
I am ! ” 

“ I will repeat no such rigmarole,” said the prisoner, 
loftily, with a face full of disgust; he could forgive her 
slighting Murray and the king’s English, but not this 
impious savagery. “lam no horse-thief ! I told them 
so. My simple word, the word of a gentleman, must 
suffice. If you should unbind me you would simply be 


90 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


releasing an honest man, who appears to be the butt of 
misfortune. I shall not plead to you for my release, nor 
do I wish you to do anything that may bring you into 
trouble or danger.” 

“ Trouble ! Danger ! Me ! ” The girl repeated the 
words with a sniff of scorn, as if their juxtaposition were 
simply absurd. “ Who can hurt me .? ” she asked, vain- 
gloriously. “ They dursn’t pester me if I turned loose 
a whole army of sho-enough horse-thiefs.” 

Receiving no answer to this remark, she continued : 
“ I didn’t know until Bose (that’s my dog yonder) 
growled that there was a soul in these woods ’sides my- 
self. I’ve been nearly all day huntin’ them pesky little 
runaways. What do you think of ’em, anyways ? ” 

It was evident she did not think her own question de- 
serving an answer in view of the more serious business 
on hand, for without pausing for Maurice either to form 
or express an opinion on the two shaggy little “ tackies,” 
tethered by long ropes to the pommel of her saddle, she 
resumed : “ But the longer I look at you the certainer I 
grow that you ain’t no more of a horse-thief than my dog 
Bose yonder. So here goes,” and with two or three vig- 
orous gashes with a clumsy clasp-knife, which she in- 
formed him she never traveled without, she severed the 
cords from Maurice’s red and swollen wrists. 

“ Now go ! ” said his girlish liberator, pointing with her 
still open knife down the long, lonely road, fast growing 
indistinguishable in the dusky light. 

Maurice staggered forward in a feeble effort to avail 
himself of his freedom, but had to lean heavily against a 
tree for support. For nearly twelve hours he had been 
bound, with not so much as a drop of water to moisten 
his parched lips. He shook his head despondently. 

“ It was useless, my good girl, to unbind me. Where 
can I go ? I know nothing of the country. My travel- 
ing companion, who made good his escape when I was 
captured, took care to possess himself of my satchel. I 
havq no purse. Every step I take may be carrying me 
closer to my tormentors, and if I should hide like a 
hunted beast in these woods, worn out and feeble wretch 
that I am, I should most likely die in them like a hunted 
beast,” 


A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LANE. g\ 

Jessie looked at him in surprised scrutiny. What 
manner of man was this ? In her experience of the sex, 
man was the synonym of all strength, and daring, and 
self-reliance, and endurance. “ Give a fellow a chance ! ” 
was the motto which declared the sum of all the help 
they asked. And here she had given a fellow a chance, 
but he did not seem to know in the least what to do with 
it or himself. In his fix, she wondered how many sec- 
onds it would have taken her to mount one of those 
ponies and gallop beyond the possibility of pursuit. The 
one regret of Jessie’s life was that she had been born to 
the thraldom of petticoats. A helpless, good-for-nothing 
girl she frequently announced herself in tones of unmiti- 
gated contempt. She did her very best to correct the 
mistake of her birth by the successful assumption of 
manly independence and somewhat boastful courage. 

“ Get on Billy, there ! ” she said, by way, it is supposed, 
of giving a fellow another chance, and she prepared to 
loosen the pony’s tethering rope. 

“He has neither bridle nor saddle. I should never be 
able to remain on his back,’’ Maurice ruefully objected. 

A merry peal of laughter startled the forest echoes. 
Jessie could scarcely speak for excess of merriment. 

“And they took you for a horse-thief ! That’s a rum 
one ! Oh, the fools ! Won’t I run Dick Thurman 
’bout this, though ? Here, then ! ’’ she said, coaxingly, 
wiping her eyes and clearing her throat for calmer utter- 
ance, as she patted the side-saddle of her own pony. 
“ ’Tain’t exactly man’s style, but you’ll have to be gettin’ 
out of this ’fore it gets any darker. My folks will be 
getting scared ’bout me. You’re to go to our house for 
to-night; tain’t but a little ways. You’re whiter than a 
sheet now, and there’s two things mighty certain — I ain’t 
a-going to leave you in these woods by yourself, and I 
ain’t a-going back home without you.’’ 

“ But you ? ” Maurice remonstrated. 

For all answer she sprang as nimbly as a squirrel upon 
Billy’s bare back and smilingly nodded once more towards 
her empty saddle. 

“ Come, quick ! Mopsy’ll be crying.’’ 

Maurice was soon mounted upon the other pony, and 
side by side they cantered swiftly towards a forlorn frame 


92 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


building that appeared in sight at the first turn of the 
road. 

A light was already glimmering from one of the uncur- 
tained windows. A swarm of dogs and juvenile blacks, 
clad primitively in one single garment, welcomed the 
return of the Prairie Princess. With a laugh and a 
merry sweep of her long whip, she scattered them, and 
directed Maurice towards a rickety horse-rack ; she can- 
tered towards the rear of the premises. 

Guided by the light, Maurice soon found himself 
standing upon an unbalustraded gallery ; only a second 
he stood alone. Then as Jessie, framed in the lighted 
doorway, bade him enter, the clatter of pursuing horse- 
feet told him his captors had returned. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A SUPPLEMENTAL SURPRISE. 

T here was, undeniably, a certain sort of weakness 
about “Maurice Raymond” which was rather a 
hindrance in emergencies like the present, where 
quick and vigorous action is absolutely essential to make 
a man master of the situation. 

This weakness consisted more in a lack of self-reliance, 
an absence of “ derring-do,” as the Scotch put it, than in 
anything like cowardice, of which, in his gentle, refined 
fashion, he was singularly free. Once let him feel quite 
sure of the proper course of action, and no man could go 
further in resolute pursuance of that course. 

To depict his character in as few words as possible, 
Gregory Kendall was gentle, refined and tender-hearted 
to a degree that laid him open to the charge of effeminacy 
from men of sterner make, unless, when carried out of 
his normal condition of pacific mildness by some resist- 
less , storm-gust of passion that swept over him like a 
tornado. But such gusts are common to the tempestu- 
ous springtime of manhood, before reason takes the helm 
and steers us into mid-life’s calmer latitude. 

A life of monotonous serenity, spent within the narrow 


A SUPPLEMENTAL SURPIUSE. 93 

confines of one city, devoted to the most peaceful and 
humane of all commercial avocations (the sale of life- 
healing drugs) was calculated to, and indeed had strength- 
ened in him the (for a man) negative virtues of quietness, 
gentleness, and a shrinking reserve. By day, always 
forming one of a million workers in the same busy hive, 
the sensation of isolation was absolutely unknown to him. 
His life ran in a certain safe groove, and it was the duty 
of the city’s guardians to see that himself and his groove 
were well taken care of. What sense of responsibility 
had he outside his own cottage-doors. By night, his out- 
going was rendered safe and pleasant by those civilized 
institutions, street-lamps and vigilant policemen, and his 
slumbers guarded by the patient watchman of the hour. 
Being then {as we all are) the product of his surround- 
ings, it may be acknowledged, without branding him a 
coward, that the broad expanse of unpeopled country in 
which he now found himself ; the eternal forests that 
weighted his soul with a sad sense of everlasting shadow 
and gloom ; the fierce outlawry of the men that were the 
sole representatives of the civilized element in these 
wilds ; the total absence of any of his own fixed stand- 
ards of right and wrong, good and bad, reduced him to 
a state of nervous bewilderment painful in the extreme, 
as he turned slowly to face the advancing horsemen. 

His face was very pale (but fatigue and abstinence had 
mucli to do with that) as he folded his arms quietly over 
his breast and fixed his large sad eyes in well-assumed 
calmness on the rough group now clustered about the 
gallery. He was determined to mask the inward tumult 
of doubt and anxiety by which he was shaken as far as 
in him lay. Not feeling at all sure how far Jessie Bor- 
ing’s boasted influence over these roughs might extend, 
and rather wincing at the idea of shielding himself under 
a girlish aegis, he resolved to make one more appeal 
to the common sense of his captors, though thus far 
he had seen very slight cause to believe them possessed 
of any. 

“ Well, gentlemen ? " he said, saluting them politely as 
they drew rein close about him, but without offering to 
dismount. His lip curled involuntarily at the appellation 
policy had dictated, but the sneer was thrown away on 


94 


THE SILENT WITNESS 


those half-wild Texas rangers, who returned his saluta- 
tion with a careless nod and — 

“Well, ole buck, you’re goin’ into winter quarters with 
the wiminin folks, are you ? ’’ 

Maurice flushed angrily, but before any fitting retort 
had framed itself upon his unready lips, Jessie bounded 
through the door at his back, and with her ringing laugh 
and a defiant crack of the whip still in her hand, stood 
by his side, as she called out to the horsemen : “ Well, 
boys, I think I rather euchred you this time ! ’’ 

A chorus of laughter greeted this sally, and one of the 
men answered, banteringly : . 

“ You think you’ve done a big business, Jess, don’t you, 
now ? ’’ 

For they knew, when they found their prisoner gone, 
that it was some of “ Prairie’s work.” 

“ I think I done a bigger business than you done when 
yon tied that man up for a horse-thief,” the girl flung 
back, saucily. “ A horse-thief ! Lord bless your stupid 
souls, when it was as much as ever he could do to ride 
Nip home. An’ you all know, boys, that Nip ain’t got 
no more spunk in 'im than a singed kitten. I wish you 
could a-seen him holdin’ on to the mane with- his teeth, 
seemed like, and a-huggin’ poor Nip’s flanks so tight with 
his heels that I listened to hear the poor brute squeal 
right out. But I reckon he’d squeezed all the squeal out 
uv ’im.” 

The uproar that greeted this derisive plea, for the pris- 
oner sent the hot blood surging over Maurice’s white 
face. It was humiliating enough to owe his life to this 
pretty savage, without having her show him up for the 
amusement of these border-ruffians ! 

He did not know, with all his collegiate acquirements 
and his familiarity with the more civilized phases of 
human nature, what this untutored Texas girl knew by 
instinct. That is — touch the muscle ridiculum and your 
cause is won ! Jessie’s influence over those about her 
was' not one whit less than she had boasted. She never 
coaxed, never sulked, never reasoned ; she simply jested 
people iiiito her measures. She made them laugh first, 
then do just as she wanted. After a fashion she was a 
success ; a living exponent of the potency of humor. 


A SUPPLEMENTAL SURPRLSE. 


95 


Earnestly desirous of helping Maurice of his trouble, she 
was wielding her only weapon vigorously in his behalf, 
unconscious that its backward stroke cut deeper into the 
finer nature of him she was befriending than did the for- 
ward one into his foes. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Maurice, with bland sarcasm, as 
soon as the merriment occasioned by Jessie’s graphic de- 
scription" of his equestrian performance had somewhat 
subsided, I acknowledge the correctness of Miss Lor- 
ing’s description. lam no Centaur. But should I take 
any one of you into my drugstore in the Northern city 
from which I hail, and tell you to weigh me out so many 
ounces of Hydrargyrum cum creta, which one of you 
could comply with my request any more skillfully or 
gracefully than I rode Nip ?” 

“ What sort of a creetur ? Say it again ! ” they answered 
him, looking puzzled but amused. 

Hydrargyrum cum creta, which is a medicinal prep- 
aration of quicksilver or mercury,” Maurice answers, with 
quite the air of a pedant. 

Floored by the dictionary ! Give it up, Mr. Hydro- 
gyrum ! Nary one of us couldn’t !” came back the full- 
chorused answer. 

“ And if I were to call for a preparation of Sulphocya- 
nogen, what would you do ? ” 

“Stare like a passel o’ blamed fools and say. Which?” 

'This time Maurice laughed with them, for the faces 
before him, distinctly visible in the brilliant torchlight 
that streamed through the open doorway, ignorant, 
brutish and coarse as they must always remain, were void 
of the black fury that had darkened them in the morn 
ing, and their laughter was fairly contagious. 

“ Or, if I should come in great haste with a doctor’s 
prescription full of mysterious abbreviations and medical 
signs, all written in crabbed lettering, what would you do ? ” 
“ Cuss the air blue and fling up the sponge ! ” 

“Very well, then, try to realize the straits I was put to, 
when suddenly ordered to mount a wild little mustang, 
with no better accouterments than a slippery side-saddle 
and a single stirrup, and told to gallop for my life. My 
life has been spent among those things, the very naming 
of which ‘ floored you,’ to use your own language. Your 


96 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


lives have been passed in the wildest sort of freedom : 
a freedom that has made you stranger to fear, to timidity, 
and — this morning I should have added — to justice. 
But I am quite sure, from the entire change in your 
voices and manners, you have returned to do me the 
justice of letting me proceed about my business without 
further molestation. Am I mistaken ? ” 

Thus brought back to the main issue of the meeting, 
the Texans looked at each other sheepishly, snickered a 
little, swore a little (as a matter of course), hesitated a 
little ; then one of them, Dick Thurman they called him, 
spoke for the crowd : 

“ You see, Mr. Hidrogyrum ” 

“Raymond is my name,” the druggist haughtily inter- 
rupted him to say, giving them the name by which he 
must be known for an indefinite period. 

“ Mr. Raymond, sarvint, sir. Glad to make your 
'quaintance, sir,” said Dick, impudently going through 
all the formula of a sudden introduction. “ When we 
boys, as I was about to say, finds we’ve made fools uv 
ourselfs, we’ve got brains ’nough to know and grit ’nough 
t’ own up t’ it. We’ve come back to you that we finds 
you was in th’ right of it and we was in th’ wrong of it 
this morning, an’ we rid straight back to th’ sapling we’d 
tied you to, to tell ’s much an’ t’ let you go scot-free ’s 
fur as we ware concerned. Jess needn’t puff herself up 
with th’ notion that she’s saved your life, fur as soon as 
we come up with them other fellers, both of ’em ridin’ 
stole horses, an’ found that one on ’em (the very one that 
sold you the horse you was so nigh goin’ up for)was a ole 
hand at the business, an’ had sold you Bob Anderson’s 
blaze-face bay mar s’ powerful cheap because he knewed 
we was on his tracks, we resolved unanimous to come 
back here as quick ’s we settled their hash fur ’em, and 
give you your walkin’ papers. ’Tain’t our fault that Jess 
give you ridin’ papers ’fore we got back. Him an’ your 
late .lamented pardner were ole hands an’ ole pals. They 
lived together, sinned together, swung together, an’ I’m 
free to say is gone to — ” 

“ Swung together ! ” Maurice exclaimed, turning sick 
with disgust for this sovereign people. “ Do you mean 
died together ? ” 


A SUPPLEMENTAL SURPRISE. 


97 


“ Died together ! ” Dick repeated, stoutly. “ You 
don’t suppose we was a-foolin’ with you this morning, 
when we promised you a hemp cravat an’ a through ticket 
to t’other side of Jordan ’fore morning ! No, sir ! we 
was talking gospel truth and good horse sense. We don’t 
valyer a horse-thief as high as a horse in this yer free 
State of Texas, an’ when we ketches one, we gives him 
just long ’nough t’ say. Now I lay me down t’ sleep, pray 
th’ Lord my soul to keep, then we hoists him. The laws 
must be respected, sir ! There was plenty of handy limbs 
close to where we bagged onr birds this morning, so we 
done their business fur ’em in no time.” 

“ And you dare take the issues of life and death thus 
insolently into your own murderous hands ! ” Maurice 
exclaimed, thrilled with horror at the imminence of the 
danger he had escaped, only to hear of his fellow-traveler 
falling a victim to it. “ If you are not afraid of man,” 
he continued, excitedly, “ is there no fear of God in your 
hearts to palsy your rash hands ? Are you so near the 
level of the brutes yourselves, that you thus value brute- 
kind above mankind ? I tell you that you have acted the 
part of brutes and cowards this day ! By what right do 
you arrogate to yourselves the duties of judge and jury ? 
You say the laws must be respected ! Whose laws ? 
Yours ? What laws ? The local regulations of a band of 
ruffians ! Try to realize that this lawless State of Texas 
is not the universe. When you have learned to under- 
stand that the world is full of human beings, leading lives 
as unlike your semi-savage existence as your own gloomy 
forests are unlike the cultured beauties of Central Park, 
you will have taken one step towards enlightenment. 
Tolerance is the first step towards true wisdom ! Intoler- 
ance, the surest index to a narrow and benighted soul. 
You have shown yourselves intolerant, narrow-souled, 
and benighted. ‘ Live and let live,’ my men, is a good 
sound motto. This is a wide, wide world, and God’s 
mercy is far-reaching. If he permits his sun to gladden 
the just and the unjust, who are you, what am I, that we 
should decree otherwise ? Will you ever be able to for- 
get to-day’s work, do you think ? Will the last look of 
agony in those dying eyes, an agony of your own making, 
remember, ever be blotted from your memories? Amid 


98 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


the whirr of business, or in the death-like silence of your 
own gloomy forests, will not the last sound their writhing 
lips formed repeat itself remorselessly and ceaselessly 
above the din of traffic, above the uproar of your orgies, 
above the loudest peal of the thunderbolt — drowning the 
sound of your wives’ voices, deadening the innocent 
prattle of your children, stifling the voice of conscience, 
goading you onward fast and furiously upon the road to 
ruin ? Will not a passion of longing to undo this day’s 
work haunt you through all the weary years to come ? 
Think you that your food will ever again nourish you ; 
your slumbers ever again refresh you ; your heart’s blood 
ever course through your miserable veins with the glad 
freedom of your sinless days? Take my word for it — 
never ? This day’s deed will be your cross through life ! 
Oh, a cross of such deadly weight, under which you 
must stagger wearily on to the bitter end ! Sleeping or 
waking, never, never more may you come from out its 
shadow ! And you will come to feel that the victory is 
with your victims in their graves ! come to think that 
death can lend its sting to life.” 

White and breathless, with the beads of a great agony 
gemming his forehead, Maurice Raymond stopped 
suddenly, and, covering his pallid face with his 
thin, trembling hands, he shivered with convulsive 
emotion. 

Had the men listening to him in rapt astonishment 
been less of brutes and closer human observers, it would 
have been plain to them that some stronger emotion than 
abstract loathing of their brutish lawlessness inspired this 
fervid outburst. As was the case, morbid contemplation 
of one certain violent death was fast making a mono- 
maniac of him. So constantly had he dwelt upon 
Catherine’s soul-guiltiness, and the tortures she must 
have endured in consequence, that he spoke as one with 
the authority of a bitter personal experience. 

A profound stillness rested upon the group for full a 
moment after his ringing voice grew silent. 

Then Dick Thurman, nudging his nearest neighbor, 
said, with irrepressible hardihood : 

“ A Methodis’ parson ! ” (Dick was not unfamiliar 
with the emotional frenzies of a “revival.” 


A SUPPLeMEN-TAL supppise. 


99 


No,” Maurice said, raising his head and speaking in 
his usual quiet voice, ‘‘ I am not.” 

“ Nor a schoolmaster ? ” asked a voice from the crowd. 

(Such a flow of incomprehensible eloquence could, in 
their unlettered judgment, proceed only from the one or 
the other.) 

“ No, nor a teacher of any sort,” Maurice answered, a 
sad, mirthless smile flickering for a second about his 
pale lips. “ I was shocked into a bit of sermonizing just 
now. I hope, my friends, you will take my words in the 
spirit of humanity that prompted their utterance. And 
now, as it is getting late, and I am really enfeebled for 
want of rest and food, may I say good-night to you ? ” 

“ Come, boys ! ” said Jessie, arousing herself with a 
vigorous shake from the trance-like stillness into which 
Maurice’s impassioned outburst had thrown her ; “ it’s 
high time you was all huntin’ your own houses. Ma’s 
under the weather a little worse than common, or I might 
undertake to supper you all. As ’tis, I can’t do no 
better’n to say, good-night to ye all and better luck nex’ 
time.” 

One word, Jess.” 

As Maurice turned wearily towards the open doorway, 
he saw Dick Thurman spring lightly from his horse on to 
the gallery and lay a detaining hand on the young girl’s 
shoulder, and heard him say: 

“ If you’ve a mind to keep Mr. Hydrogyrum about, for 
a sort of tame cat like, all right. But jus’ let him — ” 

The Princess looked very much as if it was in her to 
play a sort of wild-cat, as she swung herself angrily away 
from his hand, and, flashing blue lightning at him from 
her handsome eyes, said, in a savage whisper: 

“Come, Dick, none o’ that. You’ve made a big 
enough fool uv yourself for one day. You’d better be 
gettin’ home. Gallop, too — ’cause fool-catchers might 
be about.” 

With a scornful laugh, she banged the door uncere- 
moniously in Mr. Thurman’s face and joined Maurice, 
who was standing irresolutely in the centre of the bare 
empty hall. 

“ Come,” she said, in a voice of such gentleness as 
those bare, l)leak walls seldom echoed. “ I know you 


zoo 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


must be clean done up. I’ll take you into ma’s room, 
and you can just hobnob with her, while I scrapes you up 
some supper. You’ll like ma, and ma'll like you. Ma’ll 
understand you, too, when you talk like you did out 
yonder to them ninnies. Lord love your soul ! do you 
s’pose the boys knowed what you was talkin’ about ? No 
more’n the nags they was astride of. But ma’ll know. 
Ma ain’t like me. She ain’t like nobody in these diggin’s. 
I always think the angels and ma must look somethin’ 
like each other, only ma says they’ve got wings, which I’m 
glad she ain’t, for she’s got that poor’n opinion of these 
parts, that I’m thinkin’ she’d want to use ’em too free. 
Ma’s a lady.” 

With this proud peroration, Jessie opened a door at the 
furthest end of the long hall and ushered Maurice Ray- 
mond into her mother’s presence. 

In the course of the past few checkered and trying 
months Gregory Kendall (or Maurice Raymond, as he 
had bidden Jessie introduce him) had had many a sur- 
prise and met with many an unpredicable thing, but the 
greatest of all his surprises, and the most unpredicable 
thing he had encountered, was — Mrs. Loring ! 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE' captain’s ARM-CHAIR. 

T he room in which Maurice found himself was itself 
a minor surprise, in its evident struggles after 
refinement under adverse circumstances. 

The flower-vases that flanked the harsh-voiced, ugly 
little clock on the unpainted pine mantel-shelf had once 
been costly, as well as handsome, though their value, as 
well as their beauty, had been materially diminished by 
sundry snips ahd chips, over which bandages of yellow 
paper had been pasted with rude surgery. A glass- 
covered case of wax flowers, sere and yellow now from 
atmospheric influences, was placed carefully over a big 
crack in the marble top of the little centre-table. 


THE CAP TAINTS AkM-CHAIk. 


lol 


Capacious easy-chairs, suspiciously propped against the 
wall in far corners of the room, seemed, in the decrepi- 
tude of old age, to ask for that support they had so freely 
rendered in the lusty vigor of their own youth. The 
heavy damask curtains served the double purpose of shut- 
ting out the drearist of landscapes and cloaking numberless 
little sins against aesthetics within the barn-like room. 
Piobably, in Jessie’s baby-days, they had been things of 
beauty : but now (together with the contemporaneous 
carpet, that had been trodden and muddied and swept 
and muddied over again, until nowhere, save under the 
big immovable chest of drawers and under the decrepit 
arm-chairs in the far-away dark corners, could the 
faintest tracery of its once gorgeous flowers could be dis- 
covered) they were nothing but moth-eaten relics. Over 
all the poverty-stricken gentility of the apartment 
seemed written, in characters of dust and decay : “ In 

memoriam of better days.” 

Leaving Maurice motionless in the doorway, Jessie 
advanced with reverent caution towards a large chintz- 
covered arm-chair, the high back of which rendered its 
occupant totally invisible from the door. 

Leaning quietly over this tall back, the girl called, in a 
caressing half-whisper : 

“ Mopsy, pretty Mopsy ! ” and let a kiss fall as softly 
as a snowflake on the closed lids of the mother whom 
she thought “must look like the angels.” 

“ I am not asleep, child. I only only closed my eyes 
to rid them of the hideous outlook from those windows. 
Do drop the curtains — everything is so dismal. What 
do you want of me, Jessie ? Is it dark ? Then, perhaps, 
you can remain in the house long enough to prepare me 
a decent cup of tea. And light a lamp, child, do ; it 
gives me the horrors to sit moping here in the dark. 
Night is the only jailer that can keep you under shelter, 
you poor little savage ! There, child, don’t kiss me as 
if it had been ages since you saw me last ! ” 

The voice was weak and querulous, but the English 
was pure and the pronunciation was English — two facts 
which occasioned the liveliest surprise to the listener on 
the threshold. 

“ I’ve brunged a gentleman to see you, Mopsy,” says 


102 


THE SILENT rVlTNESS. 


Jessie^ cheerfully, motioning Maurice forward at the 
same time. 

“ Brunged ! My poor benighted child, will you never 
become at least semi-civilized ? Where is your so-called 
gentleman? In all your savage young life, I doubt if 
you have seen half a dozen men deserving that appel- 
lation.” 

“I don’t just see what apples is got to do with it, 
Mopsy, but I’m sure this is a simon pure ’un. He talks 
for all the world like yur, an’ poor pa — not like me an’ 
Dick an’ the rest of the fellers ’bout here. But here he 
is to speak for hisself,” Jessie retorts, totally unabashed 
by her mother’s threadbare strictures upon her ignorance. 

Mrs. Loring shivered, whether with cold, or at Jessie’s 
persistent heathenism, Maurice had no means of deter- 
mining, For, with the unexpected announcement that 
the “ simon pure gentleman ” had been all that while 
close behind her chair, Mrs. Loring started nervously 
from the cushions among which, with listless languor, 
she had subsided into a limp white ball, and stood up to 
receive her guest with all the quiet dignity of a duchess. 

“Jessie was right,” Maurice said to himself, as he 
accepted the delicate hand held out to him with charm- 
ing grace. “ This dainty lady, with her lily skin and 
blue-veined temples and wonderful eyes, is surely nearer 
of kin to the angels than to the savages about her.” 

“ His name is Raymon’, ma,” Jessie resumed, “ and, 
Mr. Raymon’, this is my Mopsy, an’ a pnrtier Mopsy you 
can’t find nowhere. I’ll bet a horse on it ! ” 

“Jessie !” Mrs. Loring sighed, reproachfully. 

But Jessie’s loquacity and good-nature and bad gram- 
mar were exhaustless. 

“ An’ here’s a chair. You just take a seat an’ set down, 
an’ you can tell ma all about your scrape with the boys, 
an’ how me an’ Billy brunged you home, an’ ma can tell 
you all about how she hates Texas, an’ how she never 
wanted to come here, nohow, while I stir that good-for- 
nothiA’ Sallie up with a sharp stick ; for blessed a mouth- 
ful of supper’ll yur get if I set here an’ play lady (even 
if I knowed how to play it at the best). I call ma ‘ my 
bird,’ wen feedin’-time comes, Mr. Raymon’, she do peck 
at everything so dainty-like, turnin’ her precious old 


THE CAPTAIN^S ARM-CHAIR. 103 

head this a way an’ that a way, lookin’ at her food sort 
uv suspicious-like. Only the birds don’t turn up their 
noses at everything, like my Mopsy does. I reckon they 
find the world good ’nough as the Lord made it, which 
Mopsy don’t. Some-how-’r-nother, this world ain’t good 
’nough for Mopsy, or Mopsy’s too good for the world, 
I ain’t quite clear which. Which does you think ’tis, 
Mr. Ray m on’ ? ” , 

Bustling affectionately about the arm-chair all the 
while slie was thus making known to their guest her 
mother and some of that lady’s idiosyncracies, Jessie had 
drawn the faded cashmere scarf still closer about the 
maternal shoulders, smoothed back the thinning bands 
of bright hair, till she brought to view two transparent 
little shells of ears, patted the folds of the worn black- 
silk dress a little smoother over the knees, adjusting her 
mother generally very much as one might adjust a favorite 
doll, with whose superior and beloved excellence one 
wishes to impress every new beholder. 

Watching the two, Maurice came to several correct 
conclusions and to as many more incorrect ones. 

Mrs. Loring was Jessie idealized, he thought, cor- 
rectly. The bright wavy hair, the wonderful tender eyes, 
so large, so blue, so trustful in expression, the pure white 
complexion, were common to both women originally. 
The difference was that between a wild weed, grown 
upon rocky soil, buffeted by wind and storm, uncul- 
tivated, uncared for, and that same weed under hot-house 
culture. 

Another and a better difference there was in favor of 
Jessie, the wind-nursed weed. It was the wonderfully 
wininng, outspoken bravery of the girl. There was the 
fresh breeziness of nature unsoiled, untrammeled, in 
every word she spoke, every sentiment she couched in 
her uncouth English, and the protecting tenderness she 
exercised towards the fragile author of her being, was so 
all-absorbing, so patient and withal so unique, that it 
won Maurice Raymond’s sincerest admiration. 

There is the making of a noble and superb woman in 
this little Texas savage, he thought, correctly, again. 

Upon two points, however, he failed altogether in 
satisfying himself with theories. 


104 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


Though time and hardships had evidently dealt se- 
verely with the delicate beauty of the woman before him, 
there was enough of cultured refinement still about her 
to make him marvel how she ever came to be left adrift 
in these Texas wilds. And how she ever came to have 
such a semi-savage for a daughter as Jessie, despite her 
brave championship of himself, and her filial devotion 
to her mother, undoubtedly was. 

But as yet he only saw through a glass darkly. All 
these busy conjectures kept him stupidly silent for full a 
moment after Jessie had departed, singing and whistling 
in her own boisterously cheerful fashion, to see to the 
supper arrangements. 

An embarrassed cough from Mrs. Loring aroused him 
to the necessity of explaining his unceremonious demand 
upon her hospitality. 

“ I am afraid, madam,” he began by saying, “ that my 
uninvited presence may seem to you an impertinence, 
I can only say, in apology, that Miss Loring discovered 
me in most distressful plight and kindly offered me the 
hospitality of her home for the night. The lateness of 
the hour, and my total ignorance of the route I should 
take in order to reach any town, made me accept her 
offer with an eagerness only excusable on the score of 
my great extremity.” 

“ I assure you, sir,” his hostess answered, with earnest 
cordiality, “ you are doubly welcome as a stranger, with 
the stranger’s claim upon us, and as a citizen of the civ- 
ilized world wherein I once had my own care-free exis- 
tence. It is a positive boon to me now to meet a gen- 
tleman.” 

A faint flush dyed her delicate cheeks, and she paused, 
as if regretting her too ready appeal to the sympathies of 
an entire stranger, coughed again, drew her scarf still 
closer about her slender white throat, and turned her 
large eyes away from Maurice to gaze wistfully out into 
the starlit night, and a stillness fell over them both. 

“ I am afraid I find you somewhat of an invalid, Mrs. 
Loring,” says Maurice, presently, for the silence is get- 
ting oppressive, and he wonders if his hostess meditates 
going to sleep right then and there. 

“ No, sir : not an invalid in the proper sense of the 


THE CAPTAIN'S ARM-CHAIR. 


105 

word. You only find me a woman weary to the verge of 
sickness of the utter incompatibility between herself and 
her surroundings,” she sighed. 

Poor, weak vessel ! The temptation to pour the tale 
of her woes into ears sufficiently civilized to appreciate 
their immensity was almost too great to be resisted. But 
remembering that in the world to which she used to 
belong, and to which this elegant stranger now belonged, 
the worst of all sins was a sin against good taste, and 
that to entertain a guest with a jeremiad of private griev- 
ances was just such a sin, she steered free of the sole- 
cism, and, by adroitly substituting tuum for meuni., placed 
herself and guest upon safer ground. 

“I infer from my daughter’s allusion to a ‘scrape with 
the boys’ (I can scarcely bring myself to quote that 
poor child’s rough language), that you have been in some 
trouble to-day, from which my little hoyden was instru- 
mental in relieving you. Would you mind telling me 
all about it ? ” 

Maurice did not mind, but, with rekindled indigna- 
tion and disgust, told Jessie’s mother the story of that 
troubled day ; of how he had been betrayed by his trav- 
eling companion ; of how near he had come to being 
ignominiously sent out of the world as a horse-thief ; of 
how his not having made that disgraceful exit was due 
entirely to the brave championship of her wild daugh- 
ter Jessie (for he totally disbelieved the statement that 
the Texans had returned to liberate him). 

Mrs. Loring shuddered, and said excitedly : “ It is a 
barbarous, vile country ! And if God will but spare the 
feeble spark of life in my wasted frame for a few short 
months longer, Jessie and I will look our last upon it. 
Would you believe it, sir, there are presumptuous mem- 
bers of that very gang of so-called ‘ Regulators,’ into 
whose power you fell to-day, who dare to fancy they 
may aspire to my daughter’s hand.” 

“ Impossible ! ” said Maurice, indignantly. 

“ Indeed, yes, but — ” 

But just then the door opened, and followed by that 
“good-for-nothin’ Sallie,” who, in turn, was followed by 
quite a retinue of servitors of varying sizes and degrees 
of good-for-nothingness, Jessie reappeared, trundling 


lo6 THE SILENT WITNESS. 

before her, with a greater display of strength than grace, 
a circular table, which she sent with a waltzing motion 
on one leg, until it brought up with a thud against the 
arm of Mrs. Loring’s big chair, causing the chair and the 
lady to give a little convulsive start. 

“My daughter ! ” 

“ No harm done, Mopsy, but I didn’t mean to butt 
the captain’s arm-chair quite so hard.” Then, with a 
great bang and a clatter, she began her preparations for 
the evening meal, all the while dispensing her observa- 
tions impartially between her mother, Maurice, Sallie 
“ the good-for-nothin’,’’ and the gaping group of under- 
lings, who regarded Maurice with something of that 
open-mouthed amazement with which we may presume 
the noble red man greeted Columbus’s first appearance. 

“ Well, Mr. Raymon’, you’re not sorry to see grub corn- 
in’ at last, I reckon ; them rascally boys didn’t give you 
a oyster supper before tyin’ you up, I suppose ? Do you 
call them bullets or biscuits, Sal ? for I always likes to 
get names straight before offering things to folks. That’s 
right, Pete, pour all the coffee on the carpet, that’s just 
what I made it for ; you never saw a white man before, did 
you, Jimmie ? He won’t eat you, he’s not hungry ’nough 
for that ; clear out, all of you, you’re more in my way 
than any help. You’re not to think myma’s got no feet, 
Mr. Raymon’, nor that she can’t walk on ’em too. 
Mopsy’s got two of the purtiest sort uv little feet, an’ 
she’s spry as a cricket on ’em when she wants to be. 
But you see that big chair, she’s almos’ swallered up in ? 
We call that the captain’s arm-chair. Pa was the cap- 
tain, an’ he stuck to that chair like his heart stuck to his 
body till the day he died, an’ now ma seems like she was 
glued to the captain’s arm-chair. That’s why the supper 
comes to her ’stead of her going to the supper.’’ 

Whatever may have been Mrs. Loring’s views on the 
subject of a proper reticence towards strangers, it was 
evident her daughter did not share them. 

Maurice was tempted to smile at Jessie’s rattlebrained 
nonsense, but, chancing to glance at Mrs. Loring, all in- 
clination to smile was merged into the profoundest aston- 
ishment. 

The soft languor and pretty invalidism, that had 


A/J^S. LORING WAXES CONFIDENTIAL. .107 

seemed to render even articulation a labor to Jessie’s 
mother, had vanished, and her large blue eyes were fixed 
upon her flippant daughter with a gaze in which anger, 
dismay, menace, and warning seemed to struggle for the 
mastery, while involuntarily her frail little hands clutched 
with a protecting clasp the arms of the big chair. Mau- 
rice’s surprised eyes finally caught her glance, and with a 
flushed face she turned her attention once more to her 
duties as hostess, gracefully motioning him to a seat at the 
supper-table, muttering at the same time some sentimen- 
tal commonplace about relics, and dead husbands, and 
attachments to little things, none of which in the least 
deceived Maurice, who, when he lay down that night in 
the hardest of hard beds in the comfortless spare chamber 
of the Loring mansion, was morally sure that the “ cap- 
tain’s arm-chair ” was of more importance to the captain’s 
widow than “ relics and dead husbands and attachments, 
etc., etc., went,” or than even the indiscreet Jessie was 
cognizant of. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MRS. LORING WAXES CONFIDENTIAL. 

I N spite of the fatigues of the day, the hardness of his 
bed, and the mental excitement incident upon his 
encounter with the Regulators, or perhaps because of 
them, Gregory slept a profoundly oblivious sleep until 
late the next morning, when a smothered message came 
through the key-hole informing him that “ White folks 
was a-waitin’ brekfus for ’im.” 

Then he awoke to a new day, a new sensation, and a 
new load of anxiety. 

What was the new day to him, but a fresh link that 
time had forged upon the iron chain of disasters that 
bound him to misfortune’s wheel ? Just so many more 
hours for him to brood in, for Catherine to repent in, for 
his little child to forget him in. 

What was the new sensation but a new pain ? For 
the first time in his life he felt like an impostor. 

The women who had found him a stranger and taken 


io8 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


him in were pure, true, good women, both of them, he felt 
quite sure, the wild little Prairie Princess no less than 
her cultured mother. And those true, unworldly-wise 
women were disposed to treat him with all the kindness 
and courtesy due an honored guest. 

Not from any merit in me, he thought, in all humility; 
simply from their own excess of goodness. They have 
taken me so entirely upon trust that I would be baser 
than one contemplated crime could make me, if I 
allowed myself to impose upon their goodness. What 
would they think and do if they knew that I had given 
them an assumed name, or that my real name was being 
associated with the crime of murder ? 

No matter ; he would breakfast with them, thank them 
for their goodness to him, bid them farewell, and go his 
way, to be forgotten by them as completely as any other 
chance wayfarer they were never to see again. 

“ Go my way ! ” he repeated aloud. “ Where to, and 
upon what ? ” For, suddenly glancing about the strange 
apartment, it flashed upon him that the clothes he wore 
were the sole earthly possession left him. Then he 
flushed hotly to think how he had allowed himself to be 
duped by his fellow-traveler. When the Regulators had 
first dashed furiously into sight, his companion had 
hastily urged him to intrust his satchel and purse to his 
keeping. “ My beast," he had said, “ is the better ani- 
mal. I know the country ; they will liberate you as soon 
as they find you have nothing valuable about you, and 
when they clear out I’ll join you again." And Greg- 
ory had trustfully handed over his valuables for safe- 
keeping. 

Yesterday, when about (as he thought) to lose his life, 
no other loss was recognizable, “ who stole his purse 
then, stole trash." But how to proceed without that 
trash to-day was a problem of vexing importunity. (This 
was his new load of anxiety.) 

“I need a keeper," he muttered. “How often I’ve 
heard /ler say that self-same thing, when I’d be forgetting 
something, as I almost always was.’’ And in his present 
loneliness and destitution it came to him, as it had never 
come before, to acknowledge how largely his wife’s duties 
had partaken of that nature. “ Does she miss me, and 


MRS. LORING WAXES CONFIDENTIAL. 109 


all my troublesome ways still ? Or has she gotten used 
to my absence and even begun to adjust herself, with a 
sense of relief, to the conditions of her widowed life ? I 
know I tried her sorely at times, but I loved her, oh, I 
loved her so, until — and even then — doubting the evi- 
dence of my own eyes — hungering to find myself the 
victim of some fatal mistake — yet fearing to trust myself 
in her presence while my frenzy was upon me, did I not 
do all that a man could do to discover the truth ? Did 
I not plead with her in the letter that Eva Clay solemnly 
swore to carry to Medway in person, to write me one lit- 
tle word, ‘ Come,’ if I did not see her in the office of that 
murdered man ? Did I not tell her that leaving 
that letter unanswered would be an acknowledg- 
ment of her guilt? And did not Eva Clay, returning to 
me, assure me that she had put that letter in my wife’s 
possession. What room for doubt ? What room for 
hope ? Why could she not have left her honor in my 
safe-keeping ? Why must she take vengeance into her 
own rash hands and stain the ermine of her womanly 
purity with the hideous crime of murder ? God ! how 
can I sleep — how can she breathe — for the thought of it ! ” 

Again came that smothered summons through the 
key-hole. Obeying it this time, he found the small boy, 
“Pete,” waiting outside to conduct him to the breakfast- 
room — Pete’s amazement at this influx from the civilized 
world not having yet abated sufficiently to close his gap- 
ing mouth, or to relax the startled gaze of his wide-open 
eyes. He was a small image of “Wonder,” done in 
bronze. 

Following the little bare, shuffling feet of Wonder, 
Gregory found Mrs. Loring, black silk, faded cashmere 
scarf, big chair, all — so precisely as he had left them the 
night before — that he wondered if the faded duchess had 
not spent the night in the captain’s arm-chair. 

But in Jessie there was a very decided change for the 
better. 

Her bright hair, burned to a reddish tint by reckless 
exposure to the sun, had evidently been coiffured by 
more skillful hands than the little dimpled freckled 
ones that had flourished the ox-goad so dexterously the 
day before. It was braided and coiled about her pretty 


no 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


head coronet fashion, adding some inches and plenty of 
dignity to the bearing of the Prairie Princess. It was 
also evident that maternal persuasion had prevailed in 
the matter of a very stiff linen collar, that chafed and 
fretted the unaccustomed throat into sore redness. A 
somewhat old-fashioned silk apron completed her cos- 
tuming, and seemed to Jessie something calculated to 
excite ridicule rather than admiration, so nervously did 
she crease it, and pinch it, and jerk it, with her wild lit- 
tle fingers. 

Feeling awkwardly conscious of being “ fixed up,” as 
the girl scornfully pronounced herself before Gregory’s 
advent, her consciousness crept into her morning saluta- 
tion, making it the shyest, prettiest greeting imaginable. 
All her boyish independence and dashing bravado seemed 
to have disappeared with her ponies, her ox-whip and the 
Regulators, making her, in the eyes of the guest, a charm- 
ing sample of budding womanhood. 

The breakfast disposed of, Jessie, with an irrepressible 
whistle of relief, slipped dexterously out of her silk apron 
(“ mustn’t spile it, you know, Mopsy,” she said, with 
derisive respect for that bit of ancient finery), jerked her 
brown straw hat from its peg, and with a boisterous kiss 
for her mother, and a careless nod to their guest, bounded 
out of the room. In an incredibly short space of time, 
Billy’s equine nose and Jessie’s curly head were thrust 
through the open window — as she called out, apologet- 
ically : 

“ I musty Mopsy, indeed, indeed, I must ! Just one 
little gallop, up to the paddock and back — Billy’s health 
needs it. and so do mine. I’ll come back soon and stay 
in the stuffy old house readin’ and cipherin’ all day, ef 
you just won’t get mad,, see ef I don’t ! ” and Billy and 
she took the tumble-down fence at one flying leap. It was 
evident horse and rider were on the best possible terms 
with each other. 

“ Do you see that ?” Mrs. Loring asked, turning with 
a face full of disgust and despair towards Gregory. 
“ Could any one be made to believe that such a savage 
little creature came of respectable, not to say cultivated, 
parentage ? I find it difficult to bear in mind myself.” 

“ I do not, madam, in presence of her mother,” says 


LORING WAXES CONFIDENTIAL. 


Ill 


Mr. Raymond, gallantly. “ But, probably, that mother 
does not make sufficient allowance for the superabundant 
activity of robust youth and luxuriant spirits.” 

“ Indeed, I try to. But can you not imagine the tor- 
ture I, a poor, house-ridden invalid, confined almost to 
one spot, must endure when that willful child is career- 
ing over this barbarous country with no better attend- 
ance than a couple of negro grooms ? I am feverishly 
anxious to send her away from here. All unconsciously 
you inflicted a keen disappointment on me last night. 
When I turned and found that Jessie really had intro- 
duced 2i gentleman into my presence, my heart bounded 
with the confident hope that you had been sent for us. 
Do you wonder (with your limited but insulting experi- 
ence of the country) at my feverish anxiety to get my 
daughter away from here ? ” 

“ Indeed, madam, I do not, and were I in a position to 
advise without presuming, I should seriously recommend 
sending the Prairie Princess to one of those liberal 
Northern institutions of learning, where the physical life 
is not sacrificed to the mental, but where, without clip- 
ping those soaring wings of hers, her material flights 
would be sobered by the dictates of reason and pro- 
priety.” 

“ The happiest years of my life were spent in one of 
them. And it is my firm determination to send Jessie 
there — as soon — ” She stopped suddenly and scanned 
the face of her guest earnestly. Then she began to speak 
again, with an earnestness and excitement out of all 
keeping with her previous languid feebleness. “ Mr. 
Raymond, I feel morally certain that, by some good 
chance, I have extended the plain" hospitality of my 
home to a man of honor. It is in your power to do me 
an inestimable service, if you only will. There are times 
when I think it may befall me to die very, very suddenly, 
and the thought that I may do so, before the only human 
being upon whom I have any claim should come in 
answer to a summons already sent, serves to increase the 
terrible possibility.” 

“ Madam,” Gregory made earnest answer, “if there is 
any way that you can indicate by which I can return 
the imnaense obligations under which you and yours 


II2 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


have already laid me, I beg you to command me fear- 
lessly.” 

“ Thank you. It is something very simple I am going 
to ask of you. Let me explain myself. Only one month 
ago my husband, Captain Loring, died, and we buried 
him here in this land of magnificent promises but meager 
fulfillments. Year after year he promised me should be 
the last of our voluntary exile from our home on the 
Hudson. His father, becoming enamoured of this State 
during our war with Mexico, had purchased lands here, 
and bequeathed them to his son, my husband, as the 
nucleus of an immense future fortune. Subsequently, 
when financial distress came upon Captain Loring, too 
proud to ask assistance from his own friends, morbidly 
unwilling that my own family should see me living in 
different state from that of the luxury in which I had 
been reared, he suddenly remembered his Texas posses- 
sions, and, moving out here, he threw himself vigorously 
into the odious cattle business. Year after year he would 
add to his hoard, and year after year would promise me 
that the next should find us on our way home. Jessie 
was a baby in the arms when we came here. She is now 
fifteen. And here she has grown up, deprived altogether 
of any social, moral or intellectual privileges. With the 
success of every venture grew the greed of greater gain, 
until death overtook my husband, and I, whose tenure 
of life seemed so much frailer than his, am left thus the 
sole guardian of that wild girl and of the hoarded wealth 
stored away in — ” 

“ Stop, madam ! ” Gregory said, with stern peremptori- 
ness ; “ how do you know that you are not confiding your 
secret to the veriest scoundrel?” 

“ How do I know it ? ” said Jessie’s mother, while a 
smile of fascinating sweetness played about her thin 
lips. “ I can not say how I know it. But that I am not^ 
I feel altogether certain.” 

Then Gregory crossed over to the captain’s arm- 
chair, and lifting one of the small, white hands that lay 
serenely folded on the widow’s lap, he raised it reverently 
to his lips, saying : 

“ In the name of all that manhood holds sacred — 
mother, wife and child, honor and truth — I thank you 


MRS. LORING WAXES CONF/DEXTIA L. 113 

for the sweet womanly faith you have placed in me. 
A faith, which, by the help of God, you shall never 
repent.” 

“ I am quite sure I shall not. T feel as if you had been 
sent by Providence to — ” 

“No, no!” he interrupted her nervously, “ do not 
tell me any more, until I make you better acquainted 
with the man in whom you are confiding so gener- 
ously.” 

Rising from his chair, he paced the full length of the 
apartment several times before he spoke again, but when 
he did, it was with a straightforward, manly honesty that 
went far towards confirming Mrs. Loring in her good 
opinion of him. The resolution to give her a partial 
confidence, on his part, came to him as he took the cir- 
cuit of the room, glancing with unseeming eyes at the 
decrepit arm-chairs, touching with an unconscious touch 
the sere and yellow wax ornaments, measuring with un- 
reflecting precision the big crimson octagons in the car- 
pet, where the faded blue forget-me-nots lay forgotten. 
Thus, having mechanically worked off the surplus agita- 
tion that threatened to escape him in stammering and 
confused statements, he came back to his chair quite 
calm, and entered upon his recital without giving himself 
time to lose courage : 

“ Before you repose confidence in me, Mrs. Loring, let 
me tell you that I stand before you under an assumed 
name ; totally unacquainted in the Southern country, 
without business, and (since yesterday) without a cent in 
the world ! Having told my story, I shall throw myself 
upon that womanly Inercy that must abound in your gen- 
tle heart, only stipulating that not even to your daughter 
will you repeat my story.” 

“ Does your story deal with crime ? ” his hostess asked, 
the gentle courtesy of her manner not untempered with 
judicial severity. 

“ Crime ? in the abstract, yes ; immediately ? in my 
own person, no ; wrong-doing? undoubtedly.” 

“ It was scarcely necessary, then, to stipulate that my 
daughter should be kept in ignorance of it.” 

Gregory bowed his head and was silent. This cold 
dignity, this severe voice was a new and not an encourag- 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


II4 

ing phase of his hostess’s character. Women can, with 
slight cause for change, be at one moment the most 
merciful, at the next the most merciless, of judges. Was 
he about to experience one of those tropical revulsions ? 
But with his new born awe of Jessie’s mother came, 
hand-in-hand, an accession of deferential respect. 

She was in the right, and he manfully acknowledged it. 

“ Let me hear what you have to tell me,” she said, 
rather impatiently, interrupting him. 

“I am a New Yorker,” Gregory Kendall stated, “of 
good family, and, until recently, of good repute. I am 
unjustly (I have but my unsupported word to give you) 
suspected of the murder of a man who was once my best 
friend. I did not do it ; but such was the excitement 
attending the affair that, by legal advice, I assumed a 
name and expatriated myself. 

“ Originally, Rio Janeiro was my destination, but I 
was persuaded by a shipmate to alter my plans and cast 
in my lot with him. We were traveling towards the min- 
ing districts (coming this route in compliance with his 
wishes to see his relatives, somewhere in Texas), when 
we met the Regulators. When they were about to seize us 
yesterday, he represented to me that my purse and satchel 
would be safer in his keeping, as he, knowing the country, 
could hide and rejoin me after the departure of the Reg- 
ulators. With a simplicity that to-day fills me with sur- 
prise and disgust, I gave them to him. This morning 
finds me absolutely destitute. I now ask you if, knowing 
the whole unvarnished truth concerning me, you will al- 
low me the shelter of your roof until I can write to a 
Mr. Hugh Gorham, in the city of New York, for funds 
to carry me forward ? 

“ Your daughter, of course, is your first consideration 
in life. You hinted, just now, that I might be of inesti- 
mable service to you. If the fact of being a suspected 
man does not rob me of all favor in your eyes, I implore 
you to put me to some test that may afford me an op- 
portunity to prove to you that you have not sheltered a 
villain. If the service you require at my hands is per- 
sonal to yourself, I will perform it with the respectful 
devotion of a son ; if it is for your young daughter’s 
benefit, bearing in mind my own baby girl, and her prob- 


MRS. LORING WAXES CONFIDENTIAL. 

able future need, I will do unto your child as I would 
have others do unto mine.” ^ 

Mrs. Loring had started convulsively as he mentioned 
the lawyer’s name. 

“Hugh Gorham!” she repeated a wondering, eager 
look coming into her lovely eyes. 

“ Hugh Gorham, one of the first lawyers of our city.” 

“ Is he a friend of yours ?” 

“ The nearest I have on earth.” 

“ Then I am your friend, too. Stay ! ” she said, very 
quietly, but the faded cashmere scarf rose and fell in 
tumultuous fashion over her heaving bosom. “Stay!” 
she said, once more, holding out her hand to ratify the 
command, and as Maurice took it in his own, he felt it 
tremble like a frightened bird, and the eyes into which 
he looked while uttering his earnest thanks were dim 
with tears: 

“ Is it possible,” he said, trying by an assumed lightness 
of voice and manner to dispel her evident agitation, 
“ that my friend’s friends extend from pole to pole ? 
And that the only ray of good fortune that has shone 
upon me in my exile has lighted me to one of them ? ” 

“ The nearest I had on earth,” she said, dreamily, 
answering him almost in his own words. 

“ Then,” said Maurice, “ with the link between us I 
am willing and ready to be a recipient of that confidence 
you were about to place in me, and to render you every 
service in my power.” 

“Not now,”- said Mrs. Loring; “you will be with me 
for some time; for I know by bitter experience that to 
receive a written answer to a written communication, in 
these wilds, is more apt to be a question of months than 
of days. I am tired. I cannot talk any more this morn- 
ing. Go find Jessie for me, please.” 

Maurice saw the pain in her face and heard its echo in 
her voice. This sending him after Jessie was only a 
pretext to be alone. 

“ One question — pardon me — I must ask. Is Hugh 
Gorham the person you have already written a sum- 
mons to ?” 

“ No. It is a Colonel Ethan Haversham. Now go ! ” 

And Maurice went, revolving in his mind certain sage 


THE SILENT WITNESS 


1 16 

reflections on the strange freaks fate sometimes plays 
with us. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. 

I N those by-gone days of which I write, the postal ar- 
rangements in the neighborhood into which Maurice 
Raymond’s ill-luck had thrown him were primitive to 
that degree that, when one’s letters left one’s hands, it 
was a matter of equal surprise and self-congratulation if 
they were ever acknowledged as received. 

Whosoever chanced first to be in need of “projuce ” 
(as produce was felicitously rendered) from Miller’s 
Store ” advertised his needs by making the circuit of the 
neighborhood, taking all sorts of commissions, with the 
placidity of habitude, and gathered together any chance 
epistles that might be on hand for “other parts.” 

Dick Thurman chanced to be the local expressman on 
the occasion in question, and he never lost an oppor- 
tunity of impressing Mrs. Loring afresh with the display 
of briskness, energy and business capacity that should 
(if they did not) recommend him as as a desirable son- 
in-law (depending, with conceited security, on a certain 
sort of coarse good looks, which the broad-shouldered 
young Regulator undoubtedly possessed, for “ bringing 
Jessie down”), he was there, bright and early, with his 
smart wagon and team, to “ take orders,” as he an- 
nounced it. 

A very disagreeable light came into Dick’s bold black 
eyes, when, swaggering into Mrs. Loring’s presence, 
he found Maurice Raymond still there, looking very 
much at home, busy writing a letter at the window, and 
(worse and worse) Jessie standing close beside him, 
watching the swiftly-traveling pen with a mixture of 
delighted admiration and keen mortification. The ad- 
miration was for her new friend’s marvelous dexterity; 
the mortification was for the depths of her own profound 
ignorance. 

Maurice Raymond had, all unknown to himself, 


PLANS Pop the future. 117 

opened a window in that benighted young soul. And 
there was a light — at least a glimmer of light. 

After leaving their victim in Jessie’s keeping, on a 
certain memorable evening, now some weeks gone, the 
Regulators (Dick among their number) had seen no oc- 
casion for general muster or expeditions of any sort, in- 
volving private or public weal, and thus it had come 
about that in the close attention to his bucolic avocations 
the warlike Dick had kept pretty close at home, never 
once doubting that a night’s shelter and an early break- 
fast, with supplemental directions for his further guid- 
ance on his way, and completed the sum of attentions 
bestowed upon Maurice by the Prairie Princess (much 
to the disgust of himself, the most loyal subject of that 
regal lassie). 

“ Humph ! you here yet ? ” he said, in rude resentful- 
ness of that fact and clumsy acknowledgment of Mr. 
Raymond’s courteous salutation. 

“ We hope to retain Mr. Raymond as our guest for 
some while yet,” Mrs. Loring interposed, coldly; while 
Jessie threw so much menace into her flashing eyes that 
a man must need have been very much more obtuse than 
Dick Thurman was not to have comprehended two facts. 
Firstly, that Maurice was high in favor with the widow 
and her daughter: secondly, that, unless he was ready to ' 
risk every chance of like favor for himself, he must keep 
a civil tongue in his head concerning the “tame cat,” as 
he viciously, but silently, dubbed him. “ I presume you 
are on your way to Miller’s Store,” Mrs. Loring said 
presently, thawing a little. 

“Yes, ’um, I am bound that way. An’thinkin’ you or 
(Dick seemed to find a new difficulty in bringing out the 
familiar “ Jess ” that he had bestowed upon his pretty 
neighbor ever since she had been a toddling wee thing — 
was the “ tame cat ” responsible for that, too ?) or — Miss 
Jess — he ! he ! might happen to want somethin’ did for 
you, or somethin’ fetched out for you, I just stopped by to 
signify that I were yours to command, truly D. Thur- 
man,” with a bow and a grin at his own facetiousness. 

Mrs. Loring would “ thank him to inquire for letters 
for her Jessie would “ thank him not to make a goose of 
himself” (this in allusion to poor Dick’s violent straining 


ii8 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


after good manners) ; Mr. Raymond would “ thank him 
to mail the letter his entrance had found him busy with”; 
and he hastily sealed and addressed his letter to “ Hugh 
Gorman, Esq., Street, New York.” 

With a surly grunt that might mean assent, dissent, or 
anything else, according to the hearer’s fancy, the Regu- 
lator pocketed the letter, and, smothering the almost over- 
mastering temptation to say something insolent about a 
“feller’s hanging round wimmen’s apron-strings an’ a- 
eatin’ of a lone widder’s substance,” started once more on 
his way to Miller’s Store, conscious that of the three 
commissions he left the house charged with Jessie’s in- 
volved the greatest difficulties. “How could a feller help 
‘ makin’ a goose of hisself,’ with such a pair of eyes as 
hern a-lookin’ him through an’ through ? ” Dick would 
like to know. Then he fell to pondering what it w^asthat 
had seemed to place Jessie all of a sudden at such a 
great, great distance from him, while at the same time 
impressing him with a yet keener sense of her beauty, her 
brightness, and her charming desirability in every par- 
ticular. 

“ It’s the cat’s doin’s, cuss him ! ” Dick savagely con- 
cluded ; and, wreaking his vengeance on the only thing 
^within his reach that belonged to the cat, he took the 
letter addressed to Mr. Gorham from his pocket, and 
appeased his wrath somewhat by scattering it in bits as 
small as snow-flakes over the side of his wagon. “There ! 
I’ll see him in the middle of next week ’fore I’ll turn 
errind boy for him, durn him ! ” and with a savage 
cut at his horses, into which he threw as much energy as 
if their poor unoffending hides had covered a whole tribe 
of “ tame cats,” Mr. Thurman clattered along without a 
single qualm of conscience at the betrayal of his trust. 

But he proved a better carrier-dove on the homeward 
route, for at dark he came swaggering once more into the 
widow’s presence, and, placing a letter in her hand, seated 
himself with the air of having earned his welcome this 
time. 

With a hasty apology, Mrs. Loring opened it imme- 
diately, and Maurice saw her thin white hand tremble, and 
her face turn paler than ever. But she said nothing, till 
Dick (who was terribly loquacious, and terribly unwilling 


PLAN’S FOP THE FUTURE. 119 

to leave the light of Jessie’s presence so soon again) was 
forced by a sense of decency to take himself home. 

Then, as if utterly unable to stand any further strain 
upon her feelings, she hastily extended the letter to Mau- 
rice, sobbing out ; 

“ Oh, such a disappointment ! such a disappointment ! 
What is to become of me and my poor child ? ” 

Not knowing at all what it all meant, Jessie had sprung 
forward at the first signs of agitation on that dear face, 
and folding her arms in a quaintly protecting fashion 
about her mother’s shoulders, drew her head down and 
kissed her over anH over again, while Maurice read this 
letter : 

“Madame — Your letterto my brother, Colonel Ethan Haversham, 
having reached its destination during his absence, I have read 
it (as my orders are touching all his letters), and finding from its 
tenor that delay in action may prove disastrous to your interests, 
would advise you to make application elsewhere, as Colonel Haver- 
sham is spending the summer North for his health, and may probably 
not be at home for a month or two yet. 

“ Regretting the disappointment that circumstances have compelled 
me to inflict upon you, I am, etc., Eunice Haversham.’’ 

Maurice sat silently for a long time after reading this 
note, reflecting upon its contents, and wishing, very 
earnestly, that when he did speak his words should con- 
vey some substantial comfort to this lonely and sore-tried 
woman. 

Presently he turned to Jessie, and with that grave smile 
that had gained such a mastery over her wayward heart, 
he said : 

“ Miss Jessie, will you be angered or indignant, or think 
for a moment that I am trying to usurp your place as 
comforter, if I were to tell you that I should like it very 
much if you would let me have your mamma all to myself 
for — say an hour ? ” 

“ Do you want me to go, too, Mopsy ? ” she asked, 
before committing herself to consent. 

“ I do, my daughter.” 

■‘Then, here goes ! ” and with a farewell kiss she un- 
clasped her arms, and was soon heard in the upper story 
as busy as a bee all about nothing. 

“ May I ask, Mrs. Loring,” said Maurice, going right 


120 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


to the point, “ if the time has not now come for your 
delayed confidence ? It is evident that you can look for 
no present help from this Colonel Haversham. In case I 
should receive a reply to the letter I have dispatched to 
Mr. Gorham in a reasonably punctual time, I should hate, 
above all things, to leave you in your present condition of 
anxious uncertainty. Let us try if, between us, you and 
I cannot display sufficient business talent to settle the 
money face of this matter without foreign aid, and then, 
if I might have the pleasure of seeing you and your 
daughter comfortably located in New Orleans, you could 
then await the coming of your unknown friend with ease 
and security. May I ask if he is a relative ? 

“ No — not even an acquaintance. But when my husband 
found that he was dying, he drew me down to him and 
said, in a most impressive way, ‘Send for Ethan Haver- 
sham — remember, Ethan, not Ephraim ; he will settle up 
things for you, and deal rightly by you and your child.’ 
And when I sobbed out that I might forget the name, he 
wrote, oh ! in such poor, trembling letters : ‘ Colonel 
Ethan Haversham, Toplands Parish, Louisiana.’ And 
when I sobbed out again : ‘ Suppose he should refuse to 
come? ’ such a strange smile passed over his dying face, 
and the last words he ever spoke were : ‘ Refuse to come ? 
He will not — he cannot — he dare not ! ’ That is all I 
know about Colonel Ethan Haversham. And I wrote to 
him ; with what result, you know.” 

“ Then he will come. The summer is nearly over — ” 

“ And so is my life.” 

The words came so calmly from the widow’s lips that 
Maurice glanced at her, ready to reproach her for 
levity. 

“ Can you not see,” she said, with a bitterness of im- 
patience, “ that I am weaker, fainter, feebler with almost 
every hour ? I think this agony of suspense has proven 
almost fatal to me. On every day that I have known 
there was even a chance for a reply, my nerves have been 
so shattered that a sleepless night and the wildest palpi- 
tation of this poor heart, which I firmly believe is dis- 
eased, is the consequence. I tell you, my new friend, that 
if I do not leave this place within the next three weeks I 
will never leave it.” 


PLANS FOR THE FUTURE. 


I2I 


Silence fell between them, for Maurice could think of 
no comfort just then. 

“ Let me tell you of an investment that your loqua- 
cious friend Dick suggested to me in the most uninten- 
tonal manner,” he said, presently, violently wrenching 
the conversation into a new groove, “ one which I think, 
if 1 were the owner of all the ready cash that feeble little 
body keeps guard over day and night, I should go about 
making immediately. Did you hear Mr. Thurman dilat- 
ing upon the advantages of investing in real estate in the 
city of San Francisco? I really believe that the Regula- 
tor is more than a match for us both in practical matters, 
and I think his hints were really meant for you. I do not 
believe, Mrs. Loring, that you could do better than to re- 
move at once to New Orleans, place your funds in bank, 
yourself under a good physician, and your daughter at a 
good school ; then, if upon inquiry you see cause to adopt 
my father suggestion, it is this : send an accredited agent 
to San Francisco, and invest largely in city property. 
Your profits will be immense, and your daughter’s future 
secure. As for your land here, even these savages can 
not run away with it. Your title to it is good. Your 
stock interests may suffer to a certain degree, but that is 
scarcely to be taken into consideration, when I firmly be- 
lieve that it is nothing but the nervous anxiety attendant 
upon the guardianship of those bags of gold that has re- 
duced you to your present physical condition. Once let 
me see the captain’s arm-chair, the captain’s widow, and 
the captain’s daughter in safety, and I shall not think so 
poorly of the Regulators after all. For they will have 
placed me in a position to do some little good in my 
dreary exile.” 

‘‘ And what are your own plans ? ” 

“ I have none. God knows, yet, where I will go next, 
or how turn my next honest penny. But you have not 
said, yet, what you think of my plans for you ? ” 

“Think of them? You have opened the door of 
escape for me ! Can you doubt my readiness to pass 
through it ? It has my full approbation in every par- 
ticular. Oh, to think — to think of turning my eyes once 
more towards the world where men live and read and 
think^ and are not mere feeding, drinking, sleeping 


122 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


brutes ! And, perhaps — who knows ? — I may, before I 
close these faded eyes, may see — you did not mention 
my name in the letter you wrote this morning?” she 
turned her eyes in a sort of affright upon Maurice, 
abruptly breaking her sentence off. 

“ 1 most certainly did. I told Gorham that I had 
found an asylum with a most noble lady, one Mrs. 
Loring.” 

A faint smile curled Mrs. Loring’s lips — a smile of 
relief apparently — for she said, with a sigh : 

“ Ah ! Well, there is no harm done by that. I do 
not think Mr. Hugh Gorham ever heard of Mrs. Captain 
Loring. Now, my dear friend, please say good-night, 
and to-morrow we can talk over our glorious plans more 
calmly. For, do you know ” — she paused, placed her 
hand upon her side, and a spasm of pain passed over her 
delicate features ; she gasped, and went on — “ do you 
know, I mean that you shall be my accredited agent to 
’Frisco, as poor Dick calls it.” 

When Maurice left her that night he was more than 
ever puzzled to know what association there was with 
•Hugh Gorham’s name that should so violently shake the 
feeble frame of his hostess. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A FOE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 

L ying in a half-waking, half-sleeping condition some 
hours later, ungratefully charging the restless toss- 
ings of his over-wrought system — now to the 
harshness of the mattress, then to the softness of the 
bolster ; next, to the fact that the bed was so short his 
feet projected in unpicturesque style, and, again, to the 
violent concussion of his brains with the unyielding sur- 
face of the head-board, his life, with its past of checkered 
light and shadow, its present so somber, its future pro- 
babilities and possibilities so vague, seemed to pass 
before Gregory Kendall in a shadowy panorama, bringing 


A FOE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


123 


together the most improbable people in the most improb- 
able manner and the most improbable places. 

He was surely awake ! for he had been gravely and 
connectedly pondering the hazardous position of that 
poor feeble invalid below stairs, at that moment, he sup- 
posed, tossing feverishly on the cramped lounge (into 
which, by a certain adjustment of springs and concealed 
supports, the captain’s arm-chair was connected by 
night), the sole guardian of an uncounted hoard, the 
anxiety concerning which had weighed as heavily upon 
her fevered brain as if the clinking gold had been bound 
about it in reality, reducing her almost to a shadow in 
the flesh, flushing her with hot agonies of suspected rob- 
bery, chilling her with icy contemplation of the helpless 
misery which such a loss would reduce her to, afraid to 
reveal her secret to any of the rude horde about her, 
failing in her cry for help from abroad, what would have 
become of her if the talismanic name of Hugh Gorham 
had not led her to repose her trust in him, the stranger 
who had come under her notice so peculiarly ? 

He was surely asleep ! for, while pondering that very 
subject, gliding from Mrs. Loring to Hugh Gorham, 
from Hugh Gorham to this Colonel Ethan Haversham, 
from Colonel Ethan Haversham to Kate, from Kate to 
pretty Jessie, by easy and natural linking of thought to 
thought, a strangely distinct vision of Kate, the lawyer, 
himself, this unknown Colonel Ethan Haversham, Mrs. 
Loring and the Prairie Princess, linking hands together 
as his thoughts had linked themselves together, and 
advancing slowly — so slowly, but so surely ; blindly, oh ! 
so blindly (with the thick bandages bound tightly about 
their doomed brows) towards the edge of a frightful pre- 
cipice, below which yawned an abyss (but they could 
not see it by reason of their blindness) so black, so 
fathomless, that surely the jaws of hell could yawn 110 
blacker. Upon its edge burnt smoldering fires, and in 
the sickly light that these fires shed about were strewn 
all manner of earthly goods — hope, virtue, peace, love, 
happiness, innocence !— a mighty holocaust burning on 
the black edge of the Gulf of Despair, lighted by the 
torches. of mad Desire and Pride and Passion, kindled 
with the broken fragments of shattered home altars ! 


124 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


Kate ! If he could only save Kate ! only her ! the rest 
might pass unheeded, unwept, over the gulfs black edge. 
With a gasp and a struggle, so real was his frenzied effort 
to draw that cherished form back from the deadly danger 
of his vision, he awoke ; the tight bandage still seemed 
to bind his temples ; in actual physical pain he sprang 
from the bed, and, going to the small uncurtained 
window, he thrust his head far out into the cold night air, 
to rid himself of the horror that still clung tenaciously 
to him. 

Everything out yonder under the moonlit heavens 
seemed as unreal and goblin-like as in the dreamland he 
had just quitted. The tall trees that crowded close 
about the lonely house stood like black-hooded monks 
out in the night, bowing and swaying their lofty heads 
with a solemn regularity, as if they told their beads under 
the quiet stars and bowed their heads in supplication for 
sinful man. The unsheltered kine stood motionless, with 
drooping heads, as if some weird spell of the night had 
bound their huge frames in motionless terror. An owl 
fluttered slowly from one shadowy limb to another, 
marking his transit with a shriek so weird, so dismal, so 
full of the anguish of desolation, that Maurice involun- 
tarily clasped his hands to his ears. 

Good God ! what a howling wilderness this is ! Yet 
women survive its horrors. Perhaps if I plunge into that 
outer darkness and scatter these brooding fancies by 
turning yonder cowled monks into brainless trees — dis- 
pelling the spell that binds those dumb brutes by a poke 
in their ribs, and tell that owl to his face that his desolate 
wail is nothing but an untuneful screech, I may be able 
to go to sleep again like a Christian ; as it is, sleep is out 
of the question.” 

In pursuance of this resolve, he stepped quietly out 
upon the veranda that ran the full length of the house in 
both stories, and, descending a connecting flight of stairs, 
soon found himself in the weedy little yard, where Billy 
was lazily browsing in nocturnal security from any 
sudden demand for his services from his too active 
mistress. 

He started and pointed his two little ears suspiciously 
at the sound of Maurice’s footfall, then sighed, as if 


A FOE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 


125 


immensely relieved, and bent his shaggy little head once 
more among the weeds. The spellbound cattle lee him 
pick his own way in and out, about and around their 
bulky forms and huge horns ; he was too insignificant an 
atom to disturb their equanimity for a moment ; he passed 
them by and struck into the “big road,” resolutely deter-^ 
mined to walk briskly to a certain cottonwood that 
marked a fork in the road, probably a hundred yards 
distant. For a while his own footfall in the silent night 
was all the sound he heard. Then (and he recognized 
the fact with a start of mingled surprise and alarm) he 
distinctly heard voices, some few yards ahead of him — 
stationary at first, then evidently coming directly towards 
him. Good God ! could it be that the Regulators were 
about him again ? And if they were, finding him there, 
would they not accuse him of being a spy upon their 
movements and treat him accordingly 1 The very 
thought brought the cold dews of terror in big drops 
upon his brow. Hastily concealing himself behind a 
fallen tree, he almost held his breath in his effort to con- 
ceal his presence until they should pass by. 

Nearer and nearer came the voices, then the tread of 
feet, and suddenly, almost immediately in front of his 
ambush, two people paused in earnest consultation. 

Dick Thurman the Regulator, and the servant-girl, 
Sallie, whose domestic shortcomings had won for her the 
sobriquet of Good-for-nothing ! 

Straining his ears that he might catch the full purport 
of this strange tryst, Maurice heard the Regulator laying 
his commands upon the girl in a voice of brutal master- 
ship. 

“Now mind your eye, durn you, and don’t come to 
me for pay of no sort., if you let a single word escape you 
that passes between the widder and that white-livered 
scoundrel.” 

“ I don’t want no pay, Dick ; I just wants you to li — 
like me better’n you do that high-strung Jess, that’s 
a-beginnin’ to think you an’ me ain’t good ’nough for ’er 
to wipe her shoes on. An’ you know I’d go through fire 
an’ water for you, that you does.” 

“Well, hold your jaw! I ain’t been hangin’ round 
these blasted woods ever since I made believe start for 


126 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


home, just to hear you gabble ’bout your likes. You 
say, after I left, they sent Jess out’r the room ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ An’ that they fell to talkin’ ’bout pullin’ up stakes 
an’ leavin’ these diggin’s ? ” 

“ Yes. I ’stinctly hearn him say to her as how he 
would take keer of her an’ Jess, s’ far as Orleens, an’ 
a-advisin’ of ’er wat to do with ’er money, which she’s 
a-settin’ over all the time like a old hen.” 

“ Never mind the money. Don’t you fret, an’ mind 
you, my gal, just you keep your jaw ’bout that money. 
For, by hokey, if I hear of your tellin’ anybody but me, 
blest if it don’t go hard with you ! ” 

“ As if I would tell any body but you, Dick. An’ I do 
think you don’t deserve to have a poor gal a-wearin’ out 
her heart for you,” sobbed Sallie. 

“ Gittin’ damp again, are you ? Well, I’ll be quittin*.” 
“ Oh, no, Dick, dear, good Dick, please — there, I ain’t 
a-sheddin’ of a tear.” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you, my sweet-scented shrub, it’s about 
time you was gittin’ back home. An’ I’ve got your work 
all cut out for you. Here it is. Just keep that lovely 
mouth shet, and them exceedingly small ears open, and 
them china-blue eyes skinned. Let ’em plan, and let 
’em start, the quicker the better — you just be perticular 
as to dates — an’ if Dick Thurman keeps his health, he 
will be on hand to see ’em part of the way. Now go ! ” 
“ Dick ! ” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Ain’t I been a good an’ faithful frien’ to you ? ” 
“You’ve done what you hoped would make me a 
good an’ faithful friend to you,” Dick answered bru- 
tally. 

“ It’s all one. Say ‘ good-night,’ kind — Dick — real 
kind — just one kiss, Dick, an’ I’ll work for you like a 
boughten slave.” 

And the holy compact between the traitors was sealed 
with a kiss, supplemented, on the Regulator’s side, by a 
laugh so full of insulting contempt, that the creature 
upon whom it was bestowed must have verily lost all 
the womanhood in her not to have flung him back scorn 
for scorn. 


A FOE IN THE HOUSEHOLD, 


127 


Then they both went their ways, and when the last 
echo of their footfalls had died away Maurice crept 
from his hiding-place and walked rapidly back to the 
house. 

His foot was upon the steps that led to his own pom, 
when his attention was attracted by a brilliant stream of 
light that lay in bars upon the veranda floor, immediately 
in front of Mrs. Loring’s rooms. Turning towards that 
end of the house, in apprehension lest the excitements 
of their interview might have entailed physical suffering 
on that fragile form, he involuntarily became an eaves- 
dropper for the second time that night. 

The room was more brilliantly lighted than he had 
ever seen it. And on the rug in front of the fire-place 
stood his hostess, her wasted form arrayed in the faded 
costume of a bride of many years gone by — her poor, 
pale face veiled by a long clinging bridal veil, that 
clung about her with the dismal tenacity of a winding- 
sheet. 

With the prayer-book in her hand, she was going 
through the sad mimicry of the marriage ceremony, 
herself personating man, woman, and minister ! And 
when she asked Jessie Louise Moore if she would take 
this man to be her wedded husband, with all the rest of 
the solemn interrogation, her full ringing assent came 
with the glad readiness of loving eagerness, while such a 
light broke over that poor faded face as had never shone 
there but once before — and was never, never to shine 
there again ! 

Into tremulous solemnity the lonely actress dropped 
her voice, and demanded of Hugh Lawrence Gorham if 
he would take that woman to be his wedded wife. But be- 
fore the invisible Hugh Lawrence Gorham could reply, a 
-voice so stern, so harsh, so merciless, that it was hard to 
realize it as the pantomimist’s own, rang out, “ I forbid 
the-bans ! ” 

A shriek, the book falls from her hands, and tearing 
the tattered wedding garments from her, the Captain’s 
widow falls upon her couch with all the vivid agony of 
a present pain over the resurrected misery of twenty 
years ago. 

Presently she sat up, and said, aloud : ‘‘ So foolish, 


128 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


SO foolish, and yet it was bitter sweet ! I could see him, 
feel his dear presence, hear his beloved voice ! Oh ! 
Hugh, Hugh, the idol of girlish adoration, this boy’s 
coming has brought it all back. I cling to him because 
he knew you, spoke your dear name, and thrilled me 
with its magic spell. It is not a sin to love you 

710W ! ” 

Then Maurice turned and stole away ; he would not 
hear more. 


CHAPTER XVL 
“that fool S all IE.” 

T SAY ! Why don’t you turn schoolmaster ? Lots 

X of the fellers ’bout here would come to you, and 
be glad o’ the chance.” 

Jessie threw back the shining hair that had tumbled 
all about her eyes and forehead, as she bent in rapt earn- 
estness over the writing-lesson that Maurice was gravely 
and kindly superintending, and fastened a brightly in- 
quiring look upon her writing-master, to observe the 
effect of her suggestion. 

Weeks had now elapsed since Maurice had dispatched 
his letter to Hugh Gorham, stating his destitute extrem- 
ity and asking for money. And he was still hopefully 
awaiting an answer to the appeal which Dick Thurman 
had viciously reduced to atoms before the ink was well 
dry on it. 

Daily Mrs. Loring fixed the date for their much- 
longed-for departure. But, shrinking from receiving 
monetary assistance at her hands, he gently urged a 
little longer exercise of patience on her part. 

“ Just so soon,” he would answer, “ as I receive money 
from Mr. Gorham we will start.” 

And here, out of the mouth of a babe in experience 
and a suckling at the fount of world-lore had come 
wisdom. 

Jessie’s half-jesting suggestion was acted upon by him 
in eager earnest. He lost no time in making it known 


“ T//A T FOOL SALLIE: 


129 


that he proposed opening a day-school for both sexes 
and all ages, Mrs. Loring cordially offering the use of 
her long, barn-like dining-room for that purpose. 

Three more months, a quarter session, found him in 
possession of a hundred or two dollars of his own earn- 
ing, so famously well had his school paid him. Then 
began in earnest their preparations for departure. 

Dick Thurman had been among the very earliest to 
enroll himself among Gregory’s scholars, ostensibly to 
take a course in mathematics and penmanship ; in reality 
to keep himself thoroughly posted concerning the move- 
ments of the widow’s household. 

At last the very day for the departure was agreed 
upon. 

At the eleventh hour Sallie tearfully evinced her attach- 
ment to Jessie by imploring permission to accompany 
her. Jessie consented, and afterwards gave her mother 
and “ Mr. Raymond ” a rollicking description of the 
pathetic scene between herself and Sallie, her own sur- 
prise, and the girl’s gush. 

Mr. Raymond said nothing, but instantly resolved to 
be present that night at the tryst he felt sure would be 
held in the woods by the Regulator and his tool. 

Mrs. Loring’s persistent determination that he, and no 
one but he, should assist her in dismantling the captain’s 
arm-chair detained him almost to the defeating of his 
object. 

He was quite as much interested in the Regulator’s 
movements as the Regulator could possibly be in his ; 
hence, so soon as the widow confessed, with a sigh of re- 
lief, that his disposition of her precious bags was perfectly 
satisfactory, he hastened to his former hiding-place. 

Stealthily creeping to his covert, he was soon made 
aware that the conspirators had almost terminated their 
councils. 

“ Tell me agin just how I’m to know her ? ” he heard 
the Regulator ask, eagerly; and the wretch, who was 
willing to purchase a moment of doubtful bliss by an 
eternity of jealous torment, answered: 

“ Thar plan is to git as far as old Steuben Drake’s 
empty house, first day. They’ll camp thar for the sake 
of the shelter of a roof fur the ole woman, cook supper 


130 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


an’ make thar beds, shake-down fashion, on the floor, 
ril kiver Jess up myself with a striped red-and-blue Mexi- 
can blanket — ” 

“Tip-top ! ’’ Dick interrupts — “ that’ll do ! You’d yarn 
here till kingdom come ef I’d lis’n to you. Now mind 
your eye ! Here’s what you’ve got to do : Here’s some- 
thin’ perfec’ly harmless ; I want you to drop it into the 
widder’s cup of tea that night.’’ 

“Oh, Dick !” 

“ Blast you! ’tain’t poison, fool ! I don’t want her nor 
her money-bags ! No, nor even the tame cat’s life. I 
want Jess 1 An’ by God, I’ll have her in spite of the 
devil ! That’s morphine I gived you. It’ll give Widder 
Loring pleasant dreams an’ keep her quiet while I’m 
baggin’ my game. I’ll have a lot of fellers ’long with me, 
an’ ef I can git Jess out of the room quietly, s’much the 
better ! I’ll jus’ pick my sweetheart up like a sleepin’ 
baby ; ’twill save a tearful adoo ’twixt her an’ her dotin’ 
ma. Ef the tame cat sleeps through it all, s’much the 
better for his health ; for, by heaven, if he makes any 
disturbance, he’ll just wind up whar he started in this 
neighborhood — swing for a horse-thief. Jess was fond 
’nough ov me ’fore he come aroun’. An’ soon as she 
finds out we’re man an’ wife an’ no help for it, she’ll soon 
come to her milk. Thar, now, clear out with you ! I’m 
’shamed to think how much breath an’ time I’ve wasted 
on you t’-night.” 

A sullen sound of sniffling informed Gregory that, in 
Dick’s phraseology, his tool was “ getting damp again.’’ 
A laugh of brutal mastership was all the notice the Texan 
took of the girl’s tears this time. The prize that his* soul 
most ardently longed for was so near his grasp, that he 
could not wait to parley any longer with the poor wretch 
who had so far been his most faithful ally. 

“ Dick ! ’’ she ventured to say, as he strode towards his 
horse, “ ain’t you afeard to treat me so mean ? ” 

“ Afeard of what ? ” he asked, insolently, pausing with 
his foot in the stirrup. 

“ Afeard I might play you false at the last minit ? ” 

“ Not much, I ain’t. Leastways, not s’long as you 
places the slightest value ’pon the neck ov that hand- 
sim brother ov yourn. Don’t forget, Sarah, my charmer. 


THAT FOOL SALLIES 13I 

that Josiah is a escaped convict, which I kin return to 
the Baton Rouge Penitentiary, jus’ swenever the whole 
family fails to conduc’ themselves according to the rules 
of stric’ propriety. Honesty is the best policy always, 
Sarah, my charmer, leastways between you an’ me, lovely 
girl.” With which he clattered swiftly away, and Sarah 
went slowly sniffling and sobbing homeward. 

And Gregory Kendall followed swiftly in her wake. 
He had abundant food for painful cogitation from that 
moment until the one that found the little party fairly 
under way on the morrow. And even then his load of 
anxiety was in no way lessened. Who around him 
could he trust ? Not one. Sallie and her brother 
accompanied them. The one he knew to be a traitor, 
and what he had heard of the other did not incline him 
to hope for any assistance in that quarter in the surely 
approaching hour of need. 

He could not even indulge in the comfort of consulta- 
tion. Above all things was it necessary to guard against 
any nervous excitement for Mrs. Loring, and although 
he felt sure that in just such emergencies as this would 
the plucky little Prairie Princess be in her element, he 
could not bring himself to let the girl know that she had 
become an object of desire to so coarse an admirer as 
Richard Thurman. 

To his own feeble right arm, and to his own unaided 
judgment, must the issue be entrusted. 

“ At last ! ” sighed Mrs. Loring, towards the close of 
their first day’s journey, viewing with a satisfaction born 
of excessive fatigue the treeless shelter of Steuben 
Drake’s deserted homestead. 

“ We might make, at least, four more miles,” Maurice 
ventured to suggest, “ the sun is quite high yet — ” 

‘‘ Not for worlds ! ” Jessie interrupted, with decision, 
“ Mopsy is clear done up now, and I believe one more 
mile would lay her sick on our hands for the next week. 
More hurry less speed, Mr. Raymond, so Steuben Drake’s 
it is for this one night.” And springing lightly from the 
wagon, she called peremptorily to Sallie, “Fetch along 
them blankets an’ things to fix Mopsy a bed in less’n no 
time.” 

Thus committed beyond hope of escape to the forth- 


i32 THE SILENT WITNESS. 

coming encounter with the Texans, Gregory Kendall went 
about mechanically assisting in the arrangements for the 
comfort of their little circle, all the time watching Sallie’s 
every movement with the most intense but furtive interest, 
and casting about vaguely in his mind for some counter- 
plot with which to defeat the plot of the Regulator. 

The gloomy forest trees, by which “ Drake’s ” was sur- 
rounded, soon shut out the last glimmer of daylight, and 
the pungent smell of frying bacon and boiling coffee 
proclaimed Sallie at work upon the evening meal. 

With an officiousness altogether novel in her exper- 
ience the “ tame cat,” Sallie saw that individual hover- 
ing around and about her culinary apparatus, declaring 
himself hungry enough to eat a keg of nails, and resolutely 
determined upon taking lessons in the divine art of tea 
and coffee making. But Sallie was too slow of conception 
to suspect a strategist in every male or a dupe in every 
female. 

Mrs. Loring had been made snug in the one habitable 
room, to the shutterless windows of which blankets and 
shawls had been pinned by Maurice, as much with the 
view of excluding prying glances as of shutting out the 
gloomy, starless outlook. 

Jessie had laughed at his painstaking in that respect, 
wanting to know if he were shutting out the owls and bats, 
about the only living things, she averred, save their own 
party, ’twixt Drake’s and the old place they had left at 
sunrise that morning. 

When, finally, Sallie summoned them to the supper- 
table, Mr. Kendall developed another new and decided 
phase of character. 

One cup of tea and two of strong black coffee were 
already poured out, and placed respectively at Mrs. Lor- 
ing’s, Jessie’s, and his own plate, while Sallie stood sullen- 
ly staring down in the coals on the hearth. 

What conscience she had was pricking her sorely. 
She was inwardly dismayed. How did she know that 
Dick had not lied to her ? Perhaps the white stuff she 
had put in Mrs. Boring’s cup and in Gregory’s, by Dick’s 
command, would kill them both. 

She started guiltily when Mr. Kendall spoke to her 
from his place at the table: 


133 


“ 7'HAT FOOL SALL/F.*’ 

“Sallie, I think it is rather selfish of us to keep Josiah 
waiting until we have finished supper, and as he cannot 
leave the horses, unless I go to his relief, I wish you 
would take his supper out to the wagon to him. I’ll see 
that the ladies get theirs comfortably.” 

No one but the wretched girl herself knew how she 
thanked him for ordering her out of the way — so, while 
he officiously filled a plate with solids, she poured out a 
liberal supply of black coffee for her brother, and Gregory 
soon had the satisfaction of hearing her heavy footfall on 
the dried leaves and sticks outside. 

“ Now, then,” said he, with ready deceit, “ it would 
never have done to insult Sallie’s culinary pride right to 
her face — but, presto, change ! Now, then, have some 
tea of my own drawing, which we are going to hob-nob 
over like three old maids.” And whisking Sallie’s care- 
fully prepared cups of coffee into the coffee-pot from 
which she was to draw her own evening’s comfort, Gregory 
rapidly replaced it with strong, but harmless, tea of his 
own decocting. 

Either Josiah made slow progress with the well-filled 
plate, or Sallie purposely lingered until the family had 
left the table, for Mr. Kendall had ample time to pour 
into the coffee intended for her use a sufficient quantity 
of morphia to procure for her that sound and dreamless 
sleep she had predestined him and Mrs. Loring to ; a 
ruse easy of accomplishment, as ever since his sor- 
rowful exile he had carried about with him that drug, as 
a blessed giver of that oblivion which nature cruelly 
denied him. 

And so the hours wore slowly on. In the one room, 
on their separate pallets, lay the three women, sleeping 
soundly and well. In the other — feigning sleep — lay 
Gregory, breathlessly listening for the sound of approach- 
ing footsteps, awaiting in torturing suspense the success 
or failure of his strategem. 

Jessie had fallen asleep under the magnificent striped 
red-and-black Mexican blanket, which was to mark her 
resting-place for the Texan ; but from beneath its bril- 
liant stripes, as the fatal moment of abduction approached, 
Sallie’s pure and innocent breath floated upon the night 


134 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


air, while Gregory’s ministering hands had dropped her 
sober gray blanket on Jessie’s unconscious form. 

Outside, in the wagon, the horses tethered to the 
wheels, slept Josiah, the escaped convict from the Baton 
Rouge Penitentiary. 

It must surely have been near midnight, so late that 
Gregory was in an agony of apprehension lest Mrs. Bor- 
ing, a proverbially light sleeper, should begin to stir, 
when a stealthy craunching of heavy feet proclaimed the 
fatal moment come. 

Through a knot-hole in an open cupboard he viewed 
the door of the women’s sleeping-room slowly swing 
back, and stalwart Dick Thurman stood for a second 
irresolute on the threshold. Only for a second ; then, 
with a low chuckle of exultation, he swooped down upon 
the red-and-black Mexican blanket, and tenderly bore 
the unresisting form of Sallie, his dupe, away with him 
into the outer darkness. Slipping noiselessly to the win- 
dow he had left open on purpose, Gregory only waited 
until the rapid roll of wheels told him that Dick’s sec- 
ond move had been made, and that he was as he thought, 
speeding straight to the “ Parson’s ” with the girl of his 
choice clasped close to his bosom. 

Then, bounding to the side of the wa gon, where 
Josiah lay curled up asleep, Gregory awoke him with one 
or two vigorous shakes, and when quite assured of his 
being aroused, said to him, sternly : 

“ Harness the horses immediately ! Be in readiness 
to start by the time I get Mrs. Loring and her daughter 
ready. And listen to me. I heard Dick Thurman tell 
your sister that if she played him false in his attempt to 
carry off Miss Loring, he would punish her by putting 
you back in the penitentiary of Baton Rouge ! She has 
played him false ! Sallie is gone with Dick Thurman, 
he thinking he has Jessie along, and Jessie is yonder in 
that room. You know this road better than I do. Take 
your choice to drive me over it with Dick Thurman at 
your heels, or stay and let him hunt you down.” 

“ The devil ! Hurry the women-folks up, captain, and 
forty devils can’t ketch me if you’ll just give me twenty 
minutes’ start.” 

“ You will have two hours’ start. They’ve gone back 


THAT FOOL SALLIET ' 135 

the road we came as far as Parson Brooks’s, where it is 
Thurman’s intention to be married right off.” 

While Josiah, spurred by fear, was lashing his horses 
forward at a reckless speed, carrying Jessie Loring and 
her affrighted mother further and further with each revo- 
lution of the wheels from harm’s way, Dick Thurman 
was “blessing his stars” that the supposed Jessie slum- 
bered on so peacefully. Carefully and tenderly laying 
her in the bottom of his spring-wagon, he had sprung 
triumphantly to the seat and started his mettlesome 
mares on the homestretch. 

“ Now, boys,” he said to his attendant friends, “ ef 
you’ll all just gallop straight ahead and have ole Parson 
Brooks woke up and ready to do his part by the time I 
gits there, we’ll be spliced in less’n no time, and t’-mor- 
row night Mrs. Dick Thurman’ll give you all a house- 
warmin’ such as ain’t never been seen afore in these 
diggings. Once let the words be said over over our jined 
hands, an’ all the mas an’ the tame cats an’ the lawyers 
in Crisendom can’t unhitch us.” 

So Dick’s friends, enjoying the romance of the whole 
thing as a tip-top joke, to be talked about and laughed at 
over to-morrow’s pipes and grog, galloped madly ahead 
in order to arouse Parson Brooks and have him in readi- 
ness by the time Dick arrived with his slumbering 
bride. 

The last injunction he bawled after them was : “ I 

say, boys, ef you should find the parson leastways skittish 
’bout his part of the job, jes’ tell him I’ve got the license 
all square and right at home, but left it in the wrong coat- 
pocket.” 

But Parson Brooks, never any too nice, was completely 
won over by liberal fees showered upon him by the Reg- 
ulator’s friends, and was quite in readiness by the time 
Dick’s vehicle rolled up to the gate. 

In spite of his vaunted security, the Texan was still 
anxious to push forward rapidly, and so slight was his 
confidence in his own influence over the girl of his 
choice that he resolved not to give her one chance of es- 
cape. His “ best man ” was promptly by his side as 
soon as the wagon stopped, ready to escort the lady to 
the house. 


136 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


No, sir!'* said Dick, emphatically; ‘‘fetch along 
your parson and your book and a lantern ! This here 
wagon-bed is just as good a church as we wants, and you 
know, Benny, my boy, a bird in the hand’s worth a dozen 
in the bush.” 

“ She sleeps like all thunder ! ” says Benny, cour- 
teously, as he regarded in genuine amazement the 
motionless heap on the wagon-floor. 

“ She do, for a fac’,” answered the groom-elect. 
“ Shouldn’t wonder ef that fool Sallie had made a miss- 
took and give her a dose of morphine inclusive of ma 
and the cat. But trot along ! Bring out your splicing 
apparatus, and I’ll have her on her feet by the time you 
gets here.” 

Benny returned for the rest of the party, and Dick 
applied himself to the the task of arousing the girl, who 
had in reality been fully awake for some time past, but 
had lain motionless from abject terror of the probable 
ddnoue^nent. 

Evidently some trick had been played upon her ! But 
by whom ? For one happy moment she indulged in the 
wildly foolish idea that at the eleventh hour Dick’s fickle 
heart had veered from Jessie to herself, and he had 
brought her away purposely and knowingly. But those 
cruel words, “ that fool Sallie ! ” dispelled that fond 
illusion and planted in her low, narrow soul the spirit of 
a low, narrow revenge, which kept her sullenly silent 
through the short ceremony which Parson Brooks hur- 
riedly performed as she leaned heavily on Dick’s arm 
and gazed down upon a group of roughness, dimly visible 
by the light of a lantern which one of them held close to 
the parson’s book. 

“ I pronounce you man and wife ! ” 

“ Good ! ” broke in a round chorus from the friends of 
the Regulator, who turned triumphantly to clasp his 
prize in her husband’s arms. 

The lantern was lifted aloft that the multitude might 
judge how this practical joke was relished by the victim 
of it ; the striped blanket fell from her trembling form. 
Tenderly, gently Dick parted the hands that were clasped 
in an agony pf terror over her blushing face, and — Mrs. 
Richard Thurman stood revealed in “that fool Sallie ! ” 


A DYING CONFESSION. 


137 


“ Heavens ! ” broke from the Texan's lips, as he quiv- 
ered with rage to find himself a fool’s dupe, and the pair 
glared hatred and fury upon each other in their first 
connubial glance. 

“ It’s none o’ my doin’s. But serves you right after 
all,” was his bride’s loving response. 

“ Sold ! euchred ! ” broke in a boisterous jeer from 
the crowd, who vented their senses of the ludicrousness 
of Dick’s position in shouts of laughter that echoed 
weirdly through the gloomy forests, while one cruelly* 
quoted : “ Once let the words be said over our jined 

hands, an’ all the mas an’ the tame cats an’ the lawyers 
in Crisendom can’t unhitch us.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A DYING CONFESSION. 

T his is the house, ma’am,” and, springing nimbly 
from the box-seat, the hackman, who had been in 
waiting for Mrs. Kendall at the railroad depot 
which was the point of disembarkation for Spottstown, 
opened the door for her descent. 

Simultaneously with the opening of the carriage-door, 
the door of the house before which it had drawn up also 
opened, and standing upon the threshold Catherine 
found a grave and dignified gentleman, with “ doctor ” 
stamped upon his every lineament. 

It was evident she was being looked for, and that most 
anxiously. 

“ Mrs. Kendall ? ” asked the medical man, extending 
his hand as he spoke. 

“Yes, sir,” Kate answered', briefly, for beyond the fact 
that on the previous day she had received a most urgent 
telegraphic summons to come to the place where she now 
found herself, to “gratify the dying wish of a stranger,” 
whose name even was unknown to him who sent the 
summons, she was as completely in the dark concerning 
the object of her journey as was Mr. Hugh Gorham or 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


138 

the more bitterly disappointed Colonel Ethan Haver- 
sham. 

Of course Gregory was the “ dying stranger,” she had 
instantly concluded, and on her way hither had striven 
to conquer the last rebellious throb of a heart that would 
excuse her husband of being the originator and final 
cause of all their mutual woe. 

“ You will please step this way, madam, while I give 
you in as few words as possible my reason for summoning 
•you,” were the first words the medical man spoke after 
ushering her into a cool, dark vestibule, surrounded on 
all sides by jealously closed doors. 

“ My name is Effingham — Dr. Luke Effingham. I am 
one of the local physicians attached to the asylum for the 
insane, which is located in this place.” 

A convulsive tremor passed over Catherine’s frame, as 
her supposition was thus, as she thought, so suddenly to 
be confirmed in words. 

“ Then that sensational paragraph was, after all, no 
lie !” was her unspoken exclamation. 

“ It is now four days,” the doctor went on, “ since a 
lady, evidently on the verge of the grave, attenuated in 
person and sorrow-stricken in aspect, called at our asylum 
and earnestly petitioned for a private interview with one 
of the inmates — a young man who, from the moment of 
his entering the asylum up to the one of her appearance, 
had never been inquired for or after by letter or visitor. 

“ Fearful of telling her the whole shocking truth at 
once, which was that the friend she seemed so eager to 
see had been dead a month, I asked her ‘ why she so 
earnestly desired an interview with one who had appa- 
rently been so completely forgotten ? ’ Her answer, 
startling in the extreme, came promptly and clearly from 
her pallid lips : 

“ ‘ I believe that I am the cause of his being in this asy- 
lum. I have that to tell him which, if he can be brought 
to comprehend it, may restore him to his senses and to 
his much-wronged wife.* 

“ As gently as I could then, surmising at the time that 
I probably was speaking to ‘ that much-wronged wife,’ I 
told her of the death of the friend she sought.” 

So absorbed was the physician in preparing Mrs. 


A DYING CONFESSION. 


139 


Kendall for the interview to come, that he was unobser- 
vant of the extreme agitation that held strong but silent 
sway over her. Not by a word nor a gesture did she in- 
terrupt his recital. On her way hither she had made up 
her mind that she had been summoned to witness the 
bitter finale to the short tragedy of her wedded life. But 
the physician’s narrative confused and stunned her. Who 
was this “ woe-stricken lady ”? and what had she, 
Catherine, to do with that dead inmate of the Spottstown 
Asylum ! And what had it all to do with Gregory and 
herself ? 

The professional pomposity and grave deliberation of 
Dr. Luke Effingham were trying in the extreme. But 
Catherine had learned to possess her soul in patience, if 
not in peace. 

“When,” continued the narrator, “ I told her, with all 
the considerateness I could command, that the friend she 
sought was no longer among the living, her grief was 
heart-rending to behold. After her first outcry of ‘Oh, 
God ! am I too late ? ’ she fell into a succession of 
swoons, every one of which it seemed, even to my experi- 
enced eye, must sunder the feeble thread of her exist- 
ence. I had her brought here, to my own house. My 
wife has been in assiduous attention upon her ever since 
her arrival. Yesterday she spoke for the first time. It 
was to request that I should send at once for her cousin, 
Catherine Kendall, and she wrote your address with her 
own feeble hand. She has partaken eagerly of nourish- 
ment and tonics, pleading piteously with us to keep her 
alive until she had made such reparation as is left her 
to make to you. I am now ready to escort you to her 
room.” 

“ One moment, if you please. May I inquire the name 
of the inmate v/hom this lady came to see ? ” 

If a marble statue had suddenly been endowed with 
the power of speech, the words could not have been more 
coldly measured. 

“ Kendall — Gregory Kendall ! Pardon me ! ” he 
sprang forward as Catherine’s tall form swayed help- 
lessly. “ The similarity of names ! How could I be so 
heedless ? Lean on me, madam.” 

“ Thank you — no — I am quite able to stand alone.” 


140 THE SILENT WITNESS. 

“ May I ask — ” began Dr. Effingham. 

“ To whom you have been speaking ? You may. To 
Gregory Kendall’s much-wronged wife.” 

“ And the lady up-stairs ? ” 

Have you not learned her name ? ” 

“ Clay ! Eva Clay ! A Miss Clay, I gather.” 

“ So I supposed,” said Catherine, with a slight tight- 
ening of the muscles about her beautiful mouth. ” She 
is my cousin. I am ready to go to her.” 

In silence the physician conducted her along a 
passageway in the second story of his handsome mansion 
until they reached its further end, when he pointed to a 
closed door and said : 

“In there. You will find her alone. And, pardon 
me, my dear madam, but let me warn you that whatever 
agitating issues may arise between you and that death- 
stricken woman, be patient ! Out of your vigor and 
robust hold upon life let a pitying tenderness befall her 
fast-ebbing hours. If she has wronged you, as she inti- 
mated, the time for reproaches has gone by. She is 
standing within the gates ajar, where the Searcher of 
hearts, who has already read her secret, will soon measure 
unto her infinite justice.” 

Catherine dared not trust her voice in words. Bowing 
in silent acquiescence with what he said, she swept noise- 
lessly into the chamber of death and stood over the 
wasted form of Eva Clay, her cousin ! once her rival ! 
then her foe ! now her supplicant ! 

Could it be that Eva Clay, so dashing, so gay, so ex- 
ultantly free, in her enjoyment of her village belleship, 
had come to this ? — a white, wasted, woe-worn wreck ! 

Tears of pity sprang involuntarily to her eyes. She 
had less cause than she was even yet aware of to love 
this wrecked beauty, but the most absolute pity she could 
not withhold. 

So still was the wasted form on the bed, so motionless 
the long, dark lashes resting on the thin, white cheeks, 
that it almost seemed as if that storm-tossed soul had 
already reached a haven of rest. But with scarcely more 
than a tremor of the waxen lids, Eva Clay opened her 
eyes and fixed them in calm recognition upon her 
cousim 


A DYING CONFESSION. 


141 

“ Tears ! and for me, Cath ! Why, cons’, you are 
weeping over the worst enemy you ever had ! But your 
foe is fallen now, and, after all, it is you who now, as 
always, holds the winning card. How handsome you 
look, Cath ! How vigorous ! So brimful of sweet, 
glorious, lusty life ! While I ! — I am dying, Cath ! I 
suspect that I have just managed to live long enough to 
tell you one of the darkest tales of crime that ever 
blackened woman’s soul and shortened her days. 

Why should you tell it me, Eva ? I know it.” 

“ Know it ! Know what ? ” 

“ Know that it was you, who, in the madness of an 
outraged woman’s fury, took the life of the man who re- 
fused to recall his slanderous words.” 

“ Of course you know that. Did I not come to you 
straightway and tell you ? But what you do not know is 
what 1 have sent for you to tell you. You have crossed 
my pathway more than once, Catherine, crossed my 
pathway and stolen my happiness. It was me that Gre- 
gory first loved, and you took him from me. I have 
loved him better than I have every loved anything this 
side of heaven. After you and he were married I felt all 
the girlish innocent gayety of my life go from me, and a 
feverish, passionate restlessness took entire and lasting 
possession of me. If I had been man, I suppose I should 
have taken to hard drink — being a woman I did worse, 
I became a flirt and a fast woman ! 

“ I carried everything before me in Medway, and tried 
to believe my paltry triumphs a full compensation for my 
lost happiness. It was a long time before 1 could make 
up my mind to accept your and Gregory’s repeated invi- 
tations to visit you. 

“ It would have been better for us all at this hour, and 
for that dead and forgotten libertine, if I had never 
broken my vow, never to look upon your wedded hap- 
piness. For if I had persisted in my ungracious refusals 
to visit you, I never would have come to know Spencer 
Whitehurst. It was while I was your guest, that he 
became my constant and daily visitor, giving me every 
reason to believe that he was my most devoted lover. 
After all, what a battered pair of hearts would have been 
exchanged! 


142 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


“ It was after I had left you to return to Medway, that 
in the railroad depot, waiting for the cars, I heard two 
men repeat a light remark they had heard Spencer 
Whitehurst make about me. It set my brain on fire ! 
I had no father, no brother ! None on earth to 
see me righted and make the foul slanderer eat his 
words. 

“ I turned straight about and walked back to your 
house. I was too excited to think of calling a hack. A 
furious shower of rain overtook me, and when I reached 
your house I was drenched to the skin. You were out 
shopping and Gregory, of course, was at his place of 
business. 

“ I told Betty that I was going to put on some of your 
clothes and join you down-town. I put on your gray 
pongee and that pretty cashmere scarf that Gregory 
selected for you, and the first pair of gloves I came to in 
your glove-box. 

“ Betty laughed, and said it was ‘ mighty convenient 
to be so much of a size,’ and when I started down the 
walk, she called after me, ‘ The master himself couldn’t 
tell you from Miss Kate by the back of you!’ 

“ I never intended to join you in your shopping. I 
walked straightway to Spencer Whitehurst’s office. His 
latch-key was in the door. I walked boldly into his pre- 
sence, and with scarcely a preparatory salutation, charged 
him with the insulting remarks I had overheard. He 
did not deny them. I demanded their withdrawal. He 
refused my demand. But I’m too weak now, Catherine,, 
to be circumstantially prolix. A small pistol was lying 
on the mantel-shelf near which I was standing. I took 
it up and toyed with it absently, idly (you know I never 
had the average woman’s fear of firearms); I remember 
wondering if I could touch that bias! wretch to contri- 
tion and apology by self-inflicted injuries. Oh, I was 
wild with misery, Catherine ! 

“ ‘ See,’ he said, whirling round in his office-chair, ‘ you 
interrupted me in the writing of a letter to the only 
woman I have ever loved ! I visited you as a mere pre- 
text for intimacy at her house. I would plod through a 
dozen flirtations with fast and pretty women for the 
privilege of looking upon Catherine Kendall’s beautiful 


A DYING CONFESSION. 


143 


person daily. I would risk my soul’s salvation to call 
her mine ! ’ 

“ ‘ As you cannot call her yours, why that letter ? ’ I 
remember asking him, feeling cold and stunned and mur- 
derous. 

“ ‘ A fool’s pastime, in a fool’s paradise,’ he answered. 
I suddenly reached forward to grasp the sheet of paper — 
it was torn in two between us — one of my gloves was 
dropped in the struggle. It fell between him and his 
desk. I remember saying with a sneer, ‘ May I trouble 
you to hand me that glove. It belongs to my cousin — I 
should not care to leave it in your keeping! ’ 

“ He picked it up reverently, kissed it, and boldly 
refused to return it to me. 

“ Once again I demanded the withdrawal of his 
slanderous remarks. Once again he refused me any 
satisfaction. I remember thinking, if I do not leave him, 
I will kill him. I started towards the door ! I reached it ! 
Just as my hand touched the handle he uttered a scoffing, 
insulting warning for my future guidance as a flirt. I 
turned. Our eyes clashed in one glance of bitterest 
hatred. He smiled ! A mocking, maddening, devilish 
smile. The little pistol was still in my hand ! I raised 
it ! I aimed it ! and — I fired it I 

“ See, Catherine, they speak of blood-stained hands ! 
Mine are as white, and as slender, and as pretty as they 
ever were. Of intent to murder I am as guiltless as 
yourself. A wild desire to silence those insulting lips, 
punish that cruel slanderer, was all the impulse I was 
conscious of. Dead, and by my hand 1 Dead beyond 
the power to scoff, insult, or slander ever again ! Silenced 
by my poor woman’s hand ! Amazement was all I re- 
member feeling. The result had entered so slightly into 
my calculations, if I could be said to have had any — that 
I simply wondered what I should do next. ‘ Go, tell 
Gregory,’ something within me directed. I must have 
stood motionless, as I had faced about from the door 
for fully five minutes — the sound of a door carefully 
closed, somewhere near me, must have roused me up. 
I hastened in the direction of your house. I was fairly 
in the street before I became aware that I held his pistol 
in my hand. I thrust it into the pocket of your dress. 


144 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


I reached your house — Betty had dried my own clothes, 
and they were laid out for me in your room. You came 
in just after I had finished dressing. I remember telling 
you, as calmly as I am now telling you again — ‘ I have 
killed Spencer Whitehurst ! He made me do it ! You 
c5n tell all the world if you see fit !’ Then I went away 
to go home to Medway, as I supposed. The next thing 
I remember is waking up in Sister Henriette’s bedroom 
at the dear, old convent school on Mill Street. She told 
me that I had come there on foot some four or five days 
before — had fallen into a swoon on the door-sill, and had 
been delirious with fever ever since. It was surely a 
good angel still watching over me as a fallen wretch, that 
directed my unconscious steps to that peaceful convent. 
As soon as I was able to leave my bed I went back to 
your house. A morbid curiosity to hear someihing seized 
upon me, Betty was alone at the house. She seemed 
very much surprised to see me. Said you all supposed 
I was in Medway long since. Told me that you were 
then there, having been summoned by telegraph to uncle’s 
deathbed. ‘ Gregory ? ’ I asked her, ‘He was in town, 
but in a mighty queer way ! She wished I would stop 
over a while and see him. Maybe he missed Miss Kate, 
or, maybe, he was stirred ’bout the killing of Dr. White- 
hurst, which was a good friend of his’n — and whose 
killing did seem to be mysterious beyond the finding 
out.’ 

“ I shivered as with cold, and trembled with weakness. 
I could listen to her no longer. I told her I would lie 
down in my old room for a little while before starting 
out again. How pure and sweet and restful the little 
white bed looked ! I flung myself on it and fell into a 
deep, dead sleep. 

“ When 1 finally awoke I heard some one moving about 
in the next room — your room — and I heard every now 
and then a most piteous moan as of some animal, dumb 
and suffering. Remembering what Betty had said about 
Gregory’s ‘ queerness,’ I mounted a chair and looked 
down through the glass over the door. I saw a strange, 
strange sight. In the middle of the room was a pan of 
lighted charcoal ; bending over it was Gregory — oh ! so 
wasted and wretched-looking, with your gray pongee 


A DYim CONPESSIOM. 


145 


dress in his hands, which he was evidently preparing to 
burn up by small bits. He examined the pockets, and 
with every revelation of what he took for guilt on your 
part, cousin, such a groan rent his poor, unhappy soul 
as made me shudder with remorse. His object seem to 
be to gather together every supposed scrap of evidence 
against you before beginning the work of destruction, 
fearful, perhaps, of being overtaken by the fumes of 
charcoal, which I am confident he intended to inhale, 
purposely and fatally. He had gathered them all 
together, and moaned over them all together — the scrap 
of letter among them — and begun to te^r the dress into 
small shreds, when a swoon seized him, and he fell a 
white, limp object of woe in the midst of his work. I 
sprang from the chair to go to his assistance, resolved 
upon telling the whole truth, only wondering that you 
had not already done so, when I heard a man’s step upon 
the stairs, and some one, with impetuous haste, entered 
the room where Gregory lay. I stepped back to my post 
of observation. A friend had come to Gregory. Bend- 
ing over him was a tall, dignified, grave-looking man, 
who was smoothing the hair away from your husband’s 
face with the tenderness of a woman, while he held to 
his nose a handkerchief saturated with hartshorn. I 
don’t know who he was, but I knew that he would take 
care of poor Gregory better than I could,* so I crouched 
back in my room to wait until I could leave the house 
without being noticed. 

“ I knew then that Gregory believed you to be Spencer 
Whitehurst’s murderer, deceived by your clothes. If 
I could have been with him then I should have told him 
the whole truth. As it was, with each moment’s passage 
I felt the promptings of the devil within my scorched 
soul growing louder and louder. Let him think so for a 
while, the devil prompted — let her suffer for a few days 
what you will have to suffer all your life long — coldness, 
aversion, suspicion ! She caused your misery; it is but 
just she should share it proportionately. 

“ I thought to steal away that night without seeing 
Gregory, but Betty had told him I was there, and at 
dusk he crept out of his room and came to me. He had 
a letter in his hand. He gave it to me, saying, in a 


146 


THE SILENT WlTMESS. 


dreary, tired voice : ‘ I suppose you are going to 

Medway. Catherine is there. Will you promise me as 
you hope for future salvation to put this letter into her 
hands yourself ?’ I did promise him, and I’m going to 
put that letter into your hands as soon as I’ve done 
talking to you. I did not suppose then that it was of 
such deadly consequence. ‘ She will come back as soon 
as the funeral of her father is over,’ whispered the devil, 

‘ and then there will be mutual explanations and forgive- 
ness, and reconciliations and love and happiness for 
them, while for you — for all time to come — outer darkness 
and weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.’ 

“ So I did not tell him that I was not going to Med- 
way. I took his letter and told him nothing. I went 
back to Sister Henrietta. I told her I was sick of soul 
and world-weary — I wanted to become a nun. Without a 
moment’s hesitation I entered upon my novitiate. When 
the doors of that convent closed upon me I courted 
oblivion of my whole past life. I loved to think of Eva 
Clay as dead — to live only the pious, dull, monotonous 
life of ‘ Sister Agatha.’ 

“ One day a lady brought me a large package of 
material to be converted into baby-dresses. It was 
wrapped in a newspaper. A paragraph in that paper in- 
formed me that Gregory Kendall was in a lunatic asylum. 
Seized with remorse, I contrived to get permission to 
visit this neighborhood. My object was to try to make 
Gregory understand the truth, I believed to be con- 
vinced of your innocence was all that was necessary to 
restore him to sanity and to you. But I came too late ! 
He is dead. And I, thank God, will not be alive long ! 
Thank you. Cousin Catherine, for the patient hearing you 
have granted me. Here is poor Gregory’s letter.” 

A death-like silence fell between the two women. 

Catherine could not speak words of comfort, and she 
would not speak words of reproach. 

Once again on earth Eva Clay spoke : 

“ Catherine, if all the scars and bleeding wounds dealt 
poor humanity in life’s hot battle were suddenly laid 
bare to the human eye, oh ! who could stand the ghastly 
sight ? — oh ! who could bear to look upon his brother .? ” 

And Catherine Kendall, clasping the hands of the 


AN AWAKENING, 


147 


dying woman between her own, knelt reverently in the 
presence of God and of the Angel of Death, and prayed: 

“ Thou who pitiest poor erring humanity, even as a 
father pitiest his children, look down in mercy on us both. 
Grant me the power to emulate thy divine spirit of 
forgiveness ! Grant her length of days in which to atone 
for her sins against man and God.” 

But his will, not hers, was done, and the gates ajar had 
closed upon her cousin’s departed soul before that prayer 
was finished. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

AN AWAKENING. 

C ATHERINE did not return immediately to the city. 
She could not. The thought of her life there, of the 
odious little shop, her grinding poverty, her entire 
isolation from all congenial society, was utterly intoler- 
able in her present condition of bewildered misery. She 
had never known until now how largely resentful pride 
had contributed towards nerving her for her work. She 
had half-unconsciously looked forward to the time when 
Gregory would come repentantly back to her and pro- 
claim himself a poor, miserable sinner. And she had 
taken a certain sort of satisfaction in the reflection that 
when he should so come, he would find her bravely shoul- 
dering her burden and performing for their child the two- 
fold duties of father and mother — a sight which would 
naturally intensify his remorse for his desertion of her, 
and cause him to cherish her all the more fondly for the 
future. 

But now Gregory was dead ! He would never come 
back either to suffer remorse or to cherish his injured 
wife. Nothing remained of it all but the dreary necessity 
for labor. She knew she must go back to the shop sooner 
or later, but not yet. Some respite from toil she must 
take. A few short weeks she must allow herself to get 
the better of this sudden blow. She would go to Med- 
way, her old home, for a month. 

She remained at Spottstown until after the quiet burial 
of her unfortunate cousin ; then one morning she asked 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


Dr. Effingham to show her the spot where Gregory Ken- 
dall was buried. He went with her to the graveyard of 
the asylum. He stopped before a freshly-made mound, 
at whose head was planted a small white, wooden cross, 
with No. 44 painted in black upon its surface. 

She gazed down upon the mound, the cross, the figures, 
in a calm, pulseless condition of nerves that struck her- 
self with astonishment. 

What did it mean ? Had she never really loved her 
husband? or was she, just now, so stunned by her 
cousin’s revelation that all natural feeling was submerged 
into a flood of reproachful indignation at the monstrous 
suspicions of her own rectitude, and presently she would 
begin to realize that anguish of desolation which the 
bereaved and widowed heart most naturally would feel ? 
She was not conscious of egotism, nor to blame for it, but 
in the whole melancholy tragedy played out to the bitter 
end by her cousin, her husband and her one-time lover, 
Spencer Whitehurst, her own role, that of the injured wife, 
was in her own estimation the pivot of interest upon 
which it all turned. And while standing there over 
Gregory’s grave, it was not of his fatal mistake that she 
was thinking, nor of his hours of agonized suspense while 
waiting for her explanation (an explanation so imploringly 
demanded in the letter Eva had so tardily delivered) of 
what seemed to him damning proof of her guilt ; not of 
his despairing flight from his home, nor yet of his lonely 
brooding over the horror of it all until Reason fled her 
throne, — but of her own innocence, her own wrongful 
accusation, her own deserted isolation, her own bitter 
future of poverty, loneliness, and labor. Of all the four 
who had been principal actors in that tragedy, she alone 
had done absolutely nothing to precipitate it to its awful 
denouement., and she alone remained to bear the heat and 
burden of the day. The rest had passed over the river 
of Lethe and rested in the land of oblivion. 

Dr. Effingham had considerately left her to herself 
after pointing out the grave to her. He rejoined her 
now, when it was almost time to close the. gates. 

“ Have you any wishes concerning the—fthe remains, 
my dear madam ? Any desire to remove them ? Any 
orders for a slab, or headstone, or inscription ? ” 


AJV A WAJCEmNG. 


149 


‘ Thank you, no — at least not at present. Should I 
come to feel differently, I can easily communicate with 
you.” 

Then earnestly thanking him for the kindness extended 
to her cousin, and for his courtesy to herself, she bade 
him good-by, and drove back to the railway hotel where 
Betty and Rosa had been left during these few sad days, 
leaving good Dr. Effingham to piece together the odds- 
and-ends of a tragedy with whatever skill for romancing 
he might be possessed of. 

The next night she slept under the roof of her child- 
hood’s home. She found it easier to go among her old 
friends clad in widow’s weeds than to walk in their midst 
a deserted wife. 

Naturally, Eva Clay’s dying confession haunted her 
memory day and night. Her thoughts reverted to the 
friend who rescued Gregory from self-destruction. Who 
could that have been ? She rapidly ran over the list of 
those likely to watch over her husband so tenderly. At 
last the name of Hugh Gorham suggested itself. Could 
it be that of all men upon earth, had shared her hus- 
band’s foul suspicions of herself? She grew sick with 
apprehension of the thought. Great God ! was there no 
end to the mischief that dead woman had worked her ? 
Could it be that Hugh Gorham was carrying about witli 
him the conviction that she was a murderess ? And was 
all his kindness to her, then, but contemptuous pity for a 
forlorn, forsaken woman ? The idea wrung from her 
hot, scalding tears of anguish that had not fallen over 
Gregory’s grave — convulsive sobs of indignant misery 
shook her frame, and by that storm-gust of passion Cath- 
erine Kendall came to know that to that grave, icy, re- 
served man of law her whole soul had gone out ia a burst 
of passionate adoration, such as she had never yielded to 
mortal man before. 

All unasked, all unbidden, she (perhaps an object of 
scorn and loathing to him) had flung the richest treas- 
ures of a passionate woman’s heart at his feet. Would 
he stoop to look in pity upon the offering ? or would he 
spurn it from him with contempt ? She did not know, 
she scarcely cared to know ; she only knew that she had 
awakened to new possibilities in her own nature. She 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


150 

had found out how to love, and, stranger to say, the rev- 
elation had come to her in her eager search for the reason 
of her own dead, emotional calm over Gregory’s grave. 

“I tried to be a good wife to him,” she murmured. 
“ Was it my fault that I could not love him?” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A DANGEROUS CONSOLATION, 

M r. GORHAM found himself in need of a comforter ! 
It was a novel requirement for a man so well bal- 
anced, so self-contained, one who usually found 
himself fully equal to Fate’s suddenest and most un-. 
looked-for whims. 

But, for once in his life, his busiest days left him in a 
strangely unsettled frame of mind. His solitary evenings 
irked him. For once in his life the placid contemplation 
of his own serene pre-eminence failed to ease a strange 
inward smart, and rigid application to work proved no 
panacea for the most dreadful ennui he ever remembered 
enduring. Philosophy was at a discount, and the sulks 
held recognized sway over him. 

Four consecutive Sabbath-days had found him turning 
away from the inhospitably closed doors at Shropshire’s 
Stand with ever-increasing surprise and disgust. 

A month, and yet not here ! What could it mean ? 
He wondered if that other man, who had shared with him 
the sudden surprise of finding Catherine gone, was, like 
himself, impatiently watching for her return. He resented 
the possibility as an impertinence. That source of dis- 
comfort, at least, he could rid himself of. He called at 
the Belmont House for Colonel Ethan Haversham. 
“Gone.” “Where?” “ Returned to his home in the 
South.” Further inquiries revealed the fact that Colonel 
Ethan Haversham was a wealthy Southern planter, who 
came North every summer to spend some weeks near an 
afflicted daughter, who was in one of the deaf and dumb 
asylums of the city ; which inquiries terminated the 


A DANGEROUS CONSOLATION. 15 1 

lawyer’s interest in the name of Haversham, as he 
supposed. 

None the less, Mf. Gorham needed consolation. His 
books failing him, his work and his club proving but so 
many sources of weariness, he turned to a woman on the 
homoeopathic principle of — like curing like. A woman 
was at the bottom of his unrest ; another woman might 
give him rest — or, if not next, at least distraction and en- 
tertainment. 

He took himsejf virtuously to task for this sinking into 
bondage to his neighbor’s wife. Then he smiled at the 
triteness of his own well-worn strictures. Commonplace 
rebukes, he called them, suitable to commonplace senti- 
ments in commonplace souls. Thus he argued : 

“ The unmistakable homage which my soul yields to 
Gregory Kendall’s wife is amenable to no ordinary 
strictures. I simply regard her as the one woman neces- 
sary to the perfect rounding of my existence. She is my 
complement. With her by my side, coming into my life 
as she has, after the urgent demands of my ambition have 
been fully gratified, I should be a stranger to unrest. I 
should not care to question the future, so full of infinite 
content would be the present. I shall never insult her 
womanhood, or sully my own gentlemanly honor, by 
breathing into her ear one word of love or desire, until I 
have irrefragable proof of her husband’s death. In the 
mean time, her presence fills my soul with joy, and her 
absence is a pain to me. She is out of my reach. For- 
bidden fruit, of such rare excellence and desirability as 
seldom man was tantalized with. In the mean time, she 
is as safe in my hands as is her own little Rosa.” 

In consideration of all which, Mrs. Lulie Melmont 
would have been excusable for the fiercest display of 
feminine spite had she known that Mr. Gorham’s sudden 
increase of sociability was due solely to the fact that he 
sought in her lively presencg consolation for another 
woman’s absence. 

She was gay, handsome, entertaining, and not averse 
to exercising all her talents for his lordly pleasure. And 
the lawyer found his leaden-winged hours wonderfully 
brightened by her efforts. 

He rode with her, dined with her, aad appeared by her 


THE SILENT PFITNEsS. 


* 5 ^ 

side in public quite often enough to warrant an anxious 
world in pronouncing the whole thing settled. 

And so it came about that when, ♦in the fourth week of 
Mrs. Kendall’s absence, Mrs. Mandeville demanded his 
services as a driver to the depot to meet the gay little 
Widow Melmont, after an absence from the city a day 
or two, nothing came more natural than for him to say, 
“ Yes,” and to go. 

As the cars “ slowed ” into the station four pairs of 
female eyes were fastened with looks of expectancy upon 
the towering form of the lawyer, as, with impressive ease, 
he made his way through the crowd. One pair gleamed 
from the somber depths of a widow’s veil. Catherine 
Kendall could not repress a throb of pleasurable surprise 
to think he should have divined the very hour and the 
moment of her coming, and be there to comfort her with 
a sense of human sympathy and guardianship. Betty’s 
honest eyes had promptly recognized him, and just as she 
turned to assure Miss Kate that “ seems like they had 
some friends left yet,” the pert voice of a lady’s maid, 
who had been a source of agony to Betty during the 
whole trip, said, just behind her : 

“ Here he comes. Miss Lulie. Ketch hun lettin’ any- 
body else you safe to home ! ” 

Catherine had half risen from her seat to meet him, 
when these words fell upon her ear with deadly distinct- 
ness, and as Hugh Gorham brushed by a thickly-veiled 
woman in black, with a courteous apology for touching 
her with the hat in his hand, that woman turned and 
flashed one look of eager curiosity at the child-faced 
beauty who had put her arm into his, with a coquettish 
air of proprietorship agonizing to behold. 

So Betty called a hack and Catherine Kendall entered 
it, and rode home, and opened the doors and windows 
promptly to free the dismal little rooms of their musty 
smell, and listened listlessly to Betty’s brother as he gave 
a running account of the*month’s doings, and felt abso- 
lutely indifferent as to whether the store had made money 
or lost it in her absence ; and snapped Betty up almost 
savagely for asking what she would have for supper, and 
apologized for her own savagery sweetly and promptly, and 
felt altogether miserable and nervous and disconsolate. 


A DANGEROUS CONSOLATION, IS3 

Betty had no cause for wonderment at “ Miss Kate’s 
fretfulness,” after that first night of their arrival at home. 

“ Poor creetchure,” she said, “ it’s enough to spile her 
sweet ways an’ her purty eyes, too, the trouble that’s been 
piled on her po’ shoulders so sudden-like. First, the 
master to clear out in the most unaccountable way, an’ 
to die in strange hands ; now Miss Evy gone, too, all in 
a heap-like. I’ll be jes’ as patient as it’s in me to be ; I 
don’t care if she gets as cross as two sticks.” 

But the next day, and from that day forth, she waited 
in vain for some occasion to exercise her resolve upon 
forbearance. 

Patiently, calmly, resolutely Catherine seemed to have 
taken up her cross, with its added weight, resolved to 
bear it with soldierly fortitude to the bitter end. 

Betty’s brother pleaded so piteously not to be cast out 
of his situation that he was engaged permanently ; and 
Catherine, knowing that Shropshire’s Stand would for a 
long time to come be her only dependence, added another 
branch of industry, for which hitherto she had lacked 
time. — coloring photographs for any of the galleries who 
would employ her, and painting water-color mottos and 
book-markers, for which she found a ready sale at her 
own counter. 

Thus occupied with her brush and paints in the rear 
of the shop, over which she could still retain a super- 
vision, without the degradation of personal attendance 
upon every housemaid or school-child who might happen 
to need a lamp-wick or a slate pencil, she felt as if she 
had made one step upwards in the world. 

She had returned to the city on a Monday, and as the 
week gradually wore towards her day of rest, her nervous 
apprehension concerning Mr. Gorham’s coming increased 
to a painful degree. 

She hoped he would not come. She almost doubted 
her ability to preserve a decent composure in his pres- 
ence. As she had approached her home, the sight of 
him waiting, as she had supposed, to welcome her, had 
given the lie to all the torturing suspicions that had 
beset her since Eva’s confession. Surely this “ was 
more than contemptuous pity,” she had thought, and she 
was so dismally alone that the slightest token of friendly 


154 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


interest assumed undue proportions in her eyes. But 
when those calmly penetrating eyes of his had glanced 
beyond her to rest with pleasant recognition upon 
another woman’s face, the sting of her disappointment 
had gotten the better of her womanly pride for a short 
while. 

For that first uncomfortable evening she had not been 
able to adjust herself at all to her shabby surroundings 
and friendless home-coming. Before morning, however, 
she had clearly defined her own position, and established 
the boundary line between herself and Hugh Gorham. 

The thought that it was he who had taken that defam- 
atory scrap of paper from Gregory’s hand and been led 
by it to believe her capable of the crime of murder was 
so monstrous, that she was utterly at a loss to reconcile 
such a belief on his part with his friendly advances and 
apparent respect. She was resolved to have an inter- 
view with him on that very subject ; after which, only as 
her business adviser could Mr. Gorham have any inter- 
est for her in the future. 

She wondered if he would come as usual on Sunday. 
She wondered if he would believe her bare, unsupported 
statement of the true story of Spencer Whitehurst’s death. 
She wondered if he loved that beautiful creature she had 
traveled with — wondered, and paused to wipe a tear from 
the photograph she was coloring. Sunday came, and one 
of her doubts was answered, for Mr. Gorham came with it. 

It was with a start of irrepressible surprise and agita- 
tion that he advanced to meet her with outstretched 
hands. 

Pardon him, virtuous reader, the flush of exquisite, 
tender happiness that stole through the strong man’s 
whole being, as his gaze once more rested upon his neigh- 
bor’s wife, whom, despite the decalogue, he did covet 
with a mighty heart-greed. 

Her greeting was agitated by the belief that in the 
eyes of this high-toned, honorable man she was a sus- 
pected criminal. 

“ What does this mean ? ” asked the lawyer, laying his 
hand upon Catherine’s black sleeve. 

“ I have been to Spottstown,” she said, briefly. 

“To Spottstown! Well?” 


A DANGEROUS CONSOLATION. 


155 


“ And to Gregory's grave." 

“To Gregory’s grave ! It is a lie ! A foul, mislead- 
ing lie ! It cannot be ! " he answered, with a sudden 
violence that frightened her. She had never seen him 
thus, and how could she tell that he strove with a strong 
hand to strangle the guilty throb of joy that had sprung 
into existence with her first words. 

The mute surprise in her eyes as they were fastened 
upon his agitated features restored him to himself. 

“ Pardon me,” he said, almost humbly, “ my surprise 
was uncontrollable.” 

“ I knew you were very fond of my husband,” said 
Kate, her heart swelling within her at the thought of 
how that fondness for Gregory had been the only source 
of his kindness to herself, and might prove the greatest 
barrier to his belief in the story she was resolved upon 
telling him. 

“ Yes, I loved Gregory very much,” he answered, ab- 
sently, for he was trying to decide if he should then and 
there tell her the truth concerning that incarceration, or 
wait a little longer. To deliberate was always his choice ; 
moreover, she threw her weight in the balance by saying : 

“ I have something I want very much to tell you, Mr. 
Gorham ; have you time for a patient hearing ? ” 

“ I have time for anything you may wish to say,” he 
said, leading her to a sofa and seating himself by her side. 

But Catherine had overrated her own strength. Tears 
came instead of words, and it seemed a long time to the 
man who sat by her side, moodily resentful that such a 
burst of grief should be called forth by the mention of 
Gregory’s name, before she was sufficiently calm to say : 

“ What has become of all the old, brave self-reliance 
I used so to boast of ? It has failed me when I need it 
most. What is it that makes me so childishly eager to 
right myself in your eyes ? What is it that makes me 
fancy that despite the honorable sentiment you utter, 
despite the poverty and loneliness that appeal to your 
manly sympathy alone, you look upon me with the loath- 
ing that every honorable man must feel for a woman 
whose hands have been dyed in blood? ” 

“ Hush ! ” he said, in a harsh, hoarse voice, laying a 
repressing hand upon her lips. 


156 THE SILENT WITNESS. 

“ Hush, I will not ! How dare you think it of me ? 
How dared hg .believe it possible ? You would say 
proofs — my dress — my gloves — that accursed scrap of 
paper? Against them all was his knowledge of me. 
But let him rest. He has paid the price of his mistake. 
It has sent him to a lunatic’s grave. Pity was all the 
feeling I could find in my heart as I stood over that 
grave. He ruined my life and I ruined his. God pity 
us both and pity all connected with this woeful business ! 
But you ! oh, I cannot let you go from me believing me 
a thing of guilt and black deceit ! ” 

Then rapidly she told him the whole story down to 
the sad finale of Eva Clay’s miseries and death-bed 
confession. 

“ Why did you not tell your husband all that you have 
told me ?” asked the lawyer, chaining her gaze with an 
inquisitorial eye, before which nothing but the dauntless 
truth could have stood unabashed. 

“ In the first flush of it, I sought to shield my cousin 
until it should be necessary to tell him, in case suspicion 
should fasten upon an innocent person. But he soon 
put it out of my power to tell him anything, by his mad 
refusal to see me before I went to my father ; when I 
returned he was gone. But as God is my witness, never, 
until on her death-bed my cousin delivered me my hus- 
band’s letter telling me of his suspicions, did I once sus- 
pect that to be the cause of his desertion. And you ! ” 
she said, her voice quivering with anxiety — “ you ! Have 
you been kind to me all these long months, believing me 
a monster of guilt, but still entitled to the crumbs of 
kindness that the dogs may gather if they can ? Oh ! 
bitter, bitter, bitter ! ” 

Then taking both her hands in his, Hugh Gorham 
looked pityingly down into her pale, beautiful face. 

“ Pardon me,” he said, “ for the belief that Gregory 
forced upon me before I knew you. Since I have known 
you, I have been content to relegate Spencer White- 
hurst’s killing to the realms of mystery. I have not 
believed you capable of that deed. I have not befriended 
you from pity alone. You have appealed to that within 
me which is far above if not better than manly sympa- 
thy. Gregory Kendall left you to my safe-keeping : I 


MRS. MELMONT HAS A GRIEVANCE. 15 7 

have tried to remember my promises to him ; if I have 
failed it has been because — Stop ! I, too, have some- 
thing to tell you, but I think before I speak. Your im- 
petuosity has almost carried me out of my usual sluggish 
current of action. There are times when what one 
ought to do becomes an exceedingly vexatious problem, 
even to those who flatter themselves as entirely free 
agents. If I have been enigmatical to-night, pardon me, 
and trust in me.” 

Then he went away from her with scarce a good-by. 


CHAPTER XX. 

MRS. MELMONT HAS A GRIEVANCE. 

^^TT is perfectly hideous ! What shall I do ? How 

X could we have been so devoid of taste ? Do 
speak, Julia, and tell me how we are to rectify our 
own stupid error! ” 

Mrs. Melmont’s pretty face was all in a pucker of dis- 
gust and distress and perplexity as she surveyed with 
extreme dissatisfaction a handsome, highly-colored cab- 
inet portrait of her own lovely self, just sent home by the 
photographer. 

“ A purple velvet frame is certainly not the most artistic 
surrounding for a Nile-green robe,” Mrs. Mandeville said, 
eyeing the picture critically. 

“ And yet, apart, each was lovely,” says the victim of 
incongruity. 

“ Incongruous combinations mar more things than 
painted pictures, my pretty sister. I have seen most ex- 
cellent, good people in my day, who, if they had lent 
more study to the fitness of things, would have been 
ornaments in their own circle to the end of the chapter, 
but who, by incongruous combinations, spoiled two ad- 
mirable individualities to make one hideous whole. As 
you see, the purple velvet case, selected by us on account 
of its own exquisite hue and superb finish, was a gem in 
its unity, and so, too, your pale Nile- green silk is perfec- 
tion in its way ; yet bring the two into close juxtaposition 


158 


THE SILENT WITNESS, 


and bitter disappointment results. Moral: When about 
to select your husband, bear in mind the danger of violent 
contrasts.” 

“ All of which is admirable good counsel touching the 
matter of matrimony,” says Mistress Lulie, with a pout ; 
“ but at present, Julia, it is a picture which is under dis- 
cussion, and you’ve gone but a short way towards helping 
me out of my trouble.” 

“ Change the case.” 

“Oh, no, Julia ; it is perfectly lovely, and would really 
serve to attract attention to the picture when hung.” 

“ Then change the dress.” 

“Could I ? I wonder if I could ? Do you really think 
the artist could repaint the dress, Julia? ” 

“ What the photographer thinks would be more to the 
point than what I think.” 

“ Let us go to him at once,” said the little widow, with 
a spoiled child’s impatience. 

“You forget our engagement with Mr. Gorham, 
Lulie.” 

“ For the art gallery ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“We were to call for him at twelve o’clock, were we 
not ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, then there is abundance of time! We can go to 
the photographer’s first, and call for Mr. Gorham, all in 
due season.” 

Mrs. Mandeville seeing no objection to this plan, it is 
acted upon immediately, and Mrs. Melmont is soon lay- 
ing her complaint before the photographer. 

“ If madame would wait a week or ten days the error 
could be rectified, but their colorist had his hands more 
than full for days to come.” 

But madame informed him very imperiously that she 
could not wait. 

The photographer was in despair — madame was in a 
fury. 

Then a voice came to the relief of all parties from a 
curtained recess, where the colorist under consideration 
sat hard at work: 

“ Give the lady the address of the colorist who called 


M/?S. MELMONT BAS A GRIEVANCE. 


159 


here for work, and asked us to remember her when we 
might need extra labor. We know nothing of her, save 
by her fancy sketches, which are good recommendations 
of her taste. She colors for Jacobs.” 

“True — very true — the very thing for madame”; and 
opening a drawer in his desk, the photographer extended 
to Mrs. Melmont a card written in pencil, “ Mrs. Cath- 
erine Keodrall, Shropshire’s Stand, Street,” adding 

the assurance that that was the very best thing he could 
do for madame, if madame declined being patient. 

Handing the card in turn to her driver. Mrs. Melmont 
issues her command to be driven first to Mr. Gorham’s 
office, and then to the address upon the card. 

You know, Julia, it is well to have a gentleman with 
one when one finds it necessary to visit these queer up- 
town nooks. Shropshire’s Stand has a queer sound, now, 
has it not ? ” 

Mrs. Mandeville acquiesced in the wise necessity of 
male protection under the circumstances, and was glad 
that Mr. Gorham was booked for their service that day. 

“ You know,” says imperious Mistress Lulie, after they 
have taken the lawyer up and are once more rolling over 
the cobble-stones, “ we are going to take you to art gal- 
leries to-day, and the first one on our list is an up-town 
colorist’s, of whom I am about to demand a miracle of 
skill. I want a picture w/painted.” 

“ Mr. Gorham did not feel a shadow of interest in the 
up-town colorist, who was expected to perform this 
miracle, and scarcely more in the purple-framed beauty 
that Mrs. Melmont unwrapped for* his inspection as they 
bowled along. 

“ Now, do give us your advice in advance of the artist. 
You know, as a general thing, these people are so dis- 
agreeably dictatorial, and treat one to such airs of supe- 
riority, that I am always quite under cord in their pres- 
ence.” 

“ Call upon me,” Mr. Gorham says, smiling indulgently, 
“ if you find him about to deprive you of liberty of 
opinion, and I herewith undertake to snub him for you 
in my best style.” 

“ But it’s a her ; and they are so much more disagree-! 
able,” says the little widow, grammatically. 


i6o THE SILENT WITNESS, 

“ All the same, we three magnates ought to prove equal 
to the task of defying one unchampioned artist,” the 
lawyer answers, lightly. “ But — surely your driver has 
made a mistake! ” A sickening sensation of mortifica- 
tion overwhelms him, as the coachman suddenly halts 
his prancing bays in front of Shropshire’s Stand, and 
Betty’s brother promptly appears at the carriage-door 
in obsequious attendance upon royalty that rides in 
chaises. 

“ This is Shropshire’s Stand, is it not ? ” Mrs. Mande- 
ville inquires of Rob, in that loudly dictatorial tone in 
which superiority proclaims its conviction of universal 
deafness on the part of inferiority. 

“Yes, mum, it be, mum, if you please, mum.” 

“ And Mrs. Catherine Kendall lives here ? ” 

“She do, indeed, mum,” Rob ecstatically declared, as 
if fearful that lack of zeal on his part might cause some 
damage to his beloved mistress. 

“ And she colors photographs, does she not ? ” 

“ She do beat the world at it, mum.” 

“ Is she at home ? ” 

“ She is, indeed, mum.” 

“ Then we are all right, you see, Mr. Gorham, and we 
will go in if you’ll be so good as to accompany us with 
the picture. The place looks respectable, does it not.?” 

Rob receded before the advancing host and sprang 
promptly to his post behind the counter. Such a glory 
of silk and jewels had never flashed its radiance into the 
humble little shop before, and Rob’s only regret was 
that, lacking the gift of ubiquity, he could not assist 
those radiant mortals to alight, and yet be found at his 
post ready to hurl the whole contents of the shop at their 
royal feet. 

For Catherine’s sake the lawyer lingered behind. 
Might she not misconstrue his presence there? Fool, 
to have been driven blindfold into such a snare ! But 
how was he, who savagely resisted any attempt on 
Catherine’s part to talk to him of her business affairs, to 
know that she had adopted this branch of industry ? 
Then, aloud : 

“ Would the ladies mind his remaining in the carriage 
to smoke a cigar during their interview ? ” 


mj?s. melmont has a grievance. i6i 


“ They certainly would mind it. He was there as their 
protector and champion,” Mrs. Mandeville answered. 

He had only time to reply, very coldly, “ You will need 
neither here ; I know this lady,” when they were in the 
shop, and Mrs. Mandeville was saying to Rob: 

“ I wish to see the — a — person who colors photo- 
graphs.” 

” Yes’m,” says Rob, briskly, nodding his head towards 
the little curtained alcove in the rear of the shop, where 
Catherine bent with burning cheeks over her paints and 
brushes. 

At the sound of wheels she had raised her head 
and saw Hugh Gorham alight and assist his two fashion- 
able friends from the carriage. That he should be 
coming there in company with struck Catherine 

as a refinement of cruelty. Her last hope of escape lay 
in the probability that they were purchasers whom Rob 
could serve without calling upon her, as he still often 
had to do in cases of financial perplexity or obstinate 
cavilling. 

She heard the airy demand for her presence, but was 
in no haste to answer the summons. It meant, then, she 
was thinking, that he had purposely come here with these 
fashionable friends to show her plainly how widely sun- 
dered they were by social barriers. 

“ Call her, if you please,” says Mrs. Melmont, surveying 
the curtained alcove and its inmate through her raised 
eye-glass, adding, in an aside, to Mr. Gorham : “ Quite 

a nice-looking woman. And do observe what a knack 
these poor artists have of beautifying their squalid homes ! 
Now, that alcove with its crisp muslin curtains looped 
back with rose-colored tarletan, and the hanging-basket 
of flowers in the centre, is not bad, if it is but an humble 
effort. But, after all, I expect our colorist has arranged 
it more for a setting for her own fine figure than for any- 
thing else. I remember, now, I have seen her. She has 
risen in the world since I bought the ‘ House that Jack 
Built ’ from her for my Toddles. Then she waited behind 
the counter herself,” — all of which Mrs. Melmont rattled 
off in a rapid undertone, while Rob had gone to let Mrs. 
Kendall know she was wanted. 

“ On the contrary, she has fallen in the world, as jau 


162 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


use the word,” he answered, half contemptuously. I 
knew this lady’s husband well ; he was an old school- 
mate of mine and a flourishing druggist but he would 
not stoop to vindicate Kate’s position in the eyes of this 
butterfly. Then, raising his voice, he called after Rob, 
in his most masterful way : “ Tell Mrs. Kendall, if she 
prefers it, we will wait on her in the alcove. Pardon 
me,” he said, with his most winning smile, glancing from 
one surprised sister to the other, “ I was not aware until 
your driver drew rein that you were so fortunate as to 
have obtained this lady’s services. You will scarcely 
need my advice or championship. If she carries into 
this business the good taste she displays in other 
matters, you will do well then to leave the matter en- 
tirely in her hands.” 

There was no time for other comment than the super- 
cilious arching of aristocratic brows, before Rob returned 
with a courteous message to the effect that, if the lady’s 
business concerned coloring, Mrs. Kendall would request 
her presence in the alcove. 

“ Quite the air of royalty,” Mrs. Mandeville says in a 
sarcastic undertone to Mrs. Melmont, as they rustle im- 
posingly into Catherine’s presence. 

Mr. Gorham held back. For her sake only. 

But when Mrs. Melmont, throwing her head archly 
back, demanded that he should “ stand by his promise,” 
he came resolutely forward, determined that they should 
accord to Kate the full meed of courtesy and respect 
which was her due. 

Taking the lead, he extends his hand cordially to the 
pale, beautiful artist standing in stately patience to know 
their pleasure, and, turning to his companions, says, with 
a certain grave imperativeness : 

“’Let me introduce you to my friend, Mrs. Kendall, 
ladies. I congratulate you upon being so fortunate as to 
obtain her assistance.” 

As he designated Mrs. Melmont and Mrs. Mandeville 
by name and glance, he was struck by the disagreeable 
expression on the haughty face of the latter lady. It said 
plainly, “ Needs be that offenses come, but woe be unto 
him by whom they come.” 


THE RARITY OF CHRISTIAN CHARITYT 163 


CHAPTER XXL 

‘‘alas for the rarity of CHRISTIAN CHARITY ! ” 

T WO pairs of gold-rimmed glasses were levelled curi- 
ously upon Mrs. Kendall on the strength of this un- 
expected introduction, an ordeal which she bore with 
outward fortitude and inward contempt. With dignity 
worthy of a duchess, she indicated seats to her visitors, 
and then quietly resumed her own by the little work-table, 
which was strewn with an artistic litter of pictures, paints 
and brushes, and boxes and bottles. 

“ I believe,” she said, turning her calm eyes court- 
eously upon Mrs. Melmont, “ the boy said you wished to 
see me about a picture ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Melmont glibly, “ you are a colorist 
for the Jacobs Gallery, are you not?” 

“ I am one of Jacobs’ colorists.” 

“ Did you ever see anything as hideous as that ?” she 
asked, impetuously, tearing the wrappings from the 
offensive picture and laying it on the table in front of 
Catherine, regardless of the fact that she laid it upon 
heaps of fragile material. 

Catherine slightly smiled as she replied: “Unless by 
inexorable decree of the original, ther^^seems no excuse 
for doing such violence to the laws of contrast.” 

“ Exactly ! You have caught the point at once,” Mrs. 
Mandeville graciously remarks. 

“ Oh ! I am so glad to find you know what you are 
about,” Mrs. Melmont adds, gushing with flattery in her 
delight at having matters mended. “ Now, my dear crea- 
ture ” — and with a sweep of her gloved hand she brushed 
aside the litter on the table to make room for herself 
closer to Kate — “ I want to consult with you about that 
very contrast.” 

Mr. Gorham sprang hastily forward and stooped to 
repair the mischief done by the insolent little aristocrat. 
Among the things she had thrown to the floor with the 
sweep of her silken draperies was a small rosewood box, 
the lid of which had fallen back in its descent to the floor, 
scattering the entire contents. Almost reverently the 


164 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


lawyer lay his hands on these private treasures of the 
woman he loves. He is glad that the low, hanging table- 
cover hides her face from him — he knows she is burning 
with indignation, and wonders how much of this day’s 
mortification she is laying at his door. But, in a calm, 
even voice, she is replying to Mrs. Melmont’s gush, appar- 
ently unaware of the task he is bent upon. Water-color 
book-markers, in various stages of completion, formed 
the larger portion of the box’s contents — scraps of news- 
paper clippings, a note from himself to her — and — he 
bent with boyish confusion over it — a small crayon sketch 
of his own features — quickly laying it face downwards in 
the box, he closed the lid with a snap, and rose to his 
feet to meet one startled glance from Catherine’s brown 
eyes as, with a slight inclination of her head, she took 
from his hand the box, and restored it to its place ; but 
his keen eye detected the tremor in her hand, and he 
pitied her for the pain he knew the incident had caused 
her. 

Resuming his seat on the sofa by Mrs. Mandeville’s 
side, she makes him aware that her keen eyes have also 
surprised poor Kate’s secret, as with a curling lip she re- 
marks : “ Your exertions have flushed you ” — while Kate 
gravely resumed her discussion of tints and combinations 
with Mrs. Melmont. 

She evidently has her own views, which she is disposed 
to maintain with the calm persistency of an artist who 
has a reputation to sustain. 

Mrs. Melmont has hers, which she seems equally deter- 
mined to maintain. Unfortunately the two sets of opin- 
ions seem to be totally irreconcilable, when suddenly Mr. 
Gorham is appealed to. 

“ Now, Mr. Gorham, you promised me before we got 
here that you would assist me to resist dictation. I am 
in need of your services right now, for I am being brow- 
beaten out of every suggestion I advance.” 

“ Pardon me, but I did not know then that we were 
about to visit Mrs. Kendall. You remember how vague 
your information^ on that point was. I should not dare 
to place my opinion against so true an artist in a matter 
of this sort.” 

“ Thank you,” said Catherine, flashing one grateful 


THE RARITY OF CHRISTIAN CHARITY.” i^S 

look at him, and he knew that she was thanking him, 
not for the compliment to her skill as as an artist, but 
for his adroit apology for his presence there. 

Mrs. Melmont pouted and beat the floor with her 
foot. 

Mrs. Mandeville drew her lace shawl about her shoul- 
ders and looked suggestively at her watch. 

Catherine looked coldly patient. 

What between his desire on the one hand to be loyal to 
Kate and defend her against the insolence of caste, and 
on the other the danger of conveying an idea of too great 
intimacy with the handsome artist to the cynical woman 
of the world by his side, Mr. Gorham was in a most un- 
comfortable position. 

But as matters seemed to have come to a dead-lock 
between the artist and her unreasonable customer, he 
came to the rescue with a proposition that he might be 
allowed the privilege of suggesting a delicate shade of 
primrose, “and if Mrs. Kendall will permit me, I will 
play artist myself." ' 

“ Oh, thanks ! " says Mrs. Melmont. 

While Catherine resigned her place by the fire, he 
dashed an impatient brush across the painted face, and 
with a few masterly touches carried the matter beyond 
the realms of dispute, caring very little whether Mrs. 
Melmont’s pictured self were improved by the operation 
or not. 

“ Perfect ! " was the joint exclamation of the two 
sisters, while Kate, coldly adding her encomiums, was 
thinking bitterly that noth.ing short of absolute proprie- 
torship of the original would have warranted such a 
liberty with her picture. 

“ What do I owe you ? " Mrs. Melmont asks of Kate, 
with an ostentatious display of a well-filled purse. 

“ Your friend, Mr. Gorham, is the party to whom your 
thanks and your remuneration are due,” Mrs. Kendall 
says, quietly busying herself in adjusting her disarranged 
table ; “ I am sorry I found myself so unequal to your 
demands.” 

Mrs. Melmont looked as if she would be very much 
obliged to somebody for letting her know whether or 
not she was being snubbed, but she quietly pocketed 


i66 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


her purse and made a motion to terminate the in- 
terview. 

“ Mr. Gorham, will you see Lulie to the carriage ? I 
will join you in half a second,” Mrs. Mandeville said, as 
they all stood ready to depart, and she was left alone 
with Mrs. Kendall. 

“ My good creature, I am going to make a request of 
you. I noticed among the contents of that box,” tapping 
Kate’s rosewood box with her fan, a small crayon sketch 
of Mr. Gorham. I presume it is for sale. I desire you 
to finish it in your very best style, and I will pay you your 
own price for it. I desire it for a bridal present to my 
sister — you understand, of course, you’re not to gossip 
about this matter.” 

Catherine simply stared at her in white indignation. 

She never really knew when the lady swept out of her 
presence, so utterly crushed and forlorn did she feel at 
the termination of the interview. 

Mrs. Lulie Melmont never was known to leave a spot 
without having to return or send a messenger back for 
something left behind. 

This time it was her vinaigrette which had been Ifeft 
in the alcove, and Mr. Gorham was sent back for it. 
Waling straight back to the alcove, he raised the curtains 
and stood once more in Catherine’s presence. She was 
bending over that fatal box — she had his picture in one 
hand, while in the other gleamed a pair of scissors. It 
was folly to make a pretense of ignorance on either 
side. 

He laid his hand softly over hers — the one that had 
closed tightly over the picture — with down-dropped eyes 
and crimson cheeks she stood convicted in the presence 
of her conqueror. 

“ Pardon me this morning’s work,” he said, “ it has 
cost me more than you can understand. I would have 
shielded you better if I had dared. As for that,” and he 
smiled as he indicated the hidden picture by a glance, 
“why should we tremble and blush over it like two 
detected children ? Catherine, do you not know that 
there are times when Nature will have her way in spite 
of the world, the flesh, and the devil ! Do you not know 
that there are human beings scattered all over this mis- 


‘ THE RAklTY OF CHRISTIAN CHARI TVT 167 


erable world of ours, who are thrown together haphazard 
meeting by chance — who awake to the mutual conscious- 
ness of absolute need of each other, only to be made 
aware of insurmountable barriers. Do you not know 
that in strong, earnest natures, man or woman, love is 
amenable to no law of right or expediency, that we love 
where we musf. Love is not the little blind child of 
heathen mythology; it is. a strong man armed, with whom 
we are called upon either to do vain battle, and to be 
left bruised, bleeding, fainting, else yield ourselves to 
willing, delicious bondage. Which shall you and I do, 
my friend ? 

His voice trembled; the hand that clasped hers trem- 
bled; the man’s whole soul trembled within him as he 
awaited her reply. Proudly flinging off the hand that 
clasped hers, she flashed the indignation of an insulted 
queen into his eyes as she replied: 

“ There is no absolute need on earth, but the need for 
man’s honor and woman’s integrity. He who talks of 
love’s mastery and insurmountable barriers in one breath 
leads where I cannot follow him. Love is a strong man 
armed, I grant you, but his weapons of lust and of desire 
fall blunted and powerless before the triple arms of truth, 
purity and honor. You have taken me at a disadvantage. 
You have surprised my secret from me. Take it for 
what it is worth. ‘ Which shall you and, I do,’ you ask. 
I have just been made aware of your position; surely the 
sign-posts in the road of honor are not all obliterated ; 
follow thou them ! As for me^ I am content to do vain 
battle, and if need be, to be left bruised, bleeding, faint- 
ing — yes, sick unto death ! ” 

“ It were well worth having offended to have stirred 
you to so sublime a vindication of your own exalted 
womanhood,” the offender said, almost humbly, bowing 
his kingly head before the woman who had by every 
spoken word, every impassioned gesture, every glance of 
her indignant eye, but riveted his chains the closer. 
“ But, before I leave you, will you not put your hand in 
mine in kindness and tell me that you forgive that unpre- 
meditated outburst of mine ? I found you alone and 
sorrowful. I had hoped never to have lost control of 
myself in your presence. I am not worthy of the trust 


i68 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


imposed upon me. I know my own weakness now, and 
I scorn myself for it ! ” 

“ Are you not keeping your friends waiting? " asked 
Mrs. Kendall, in an almost repellant voice. 

“ True. I am adding discourtesy to the long list of 
this day’s offenses. I was commissioned to find a vinai- 
grette. Ah ! this is it. Thank you. One word more. 
You said, a while back, that you had ‘just become aware 
of my position.’ I doubt if you are aware of it. But 
you shall no longer be kept in the dark if I have to break 
a very foolish promise to Gregory Kendall. To-morrow 
evening you must be prepared for a very strange recital, 
for I shall come to you, and, perhaps, Catherine — who 
knows ? — you will come to feel more leniently towards 
this day’s mistakes of mine than you do now, after I 
have told you everything.” 

“ Please go ! ” were the last words that Hugh Gorham 
was destined to hear from the lips he best loved, for a 
weary long time to come. 

He turned upon the doorsill of the alcove ; she was 
slowly but resolutely tearing the crayon sketch into very 
small bits. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

FOILED BY A CARPET-TACK. 

B rooding in sullen dissatisfaction over all the mis- 
takes and mishaps of that unfortunate day, Mr. 
Gorham came to a sudden resolve : When Catherine 
Kendall had returned from Spottstown, now gone some 
two months or more, and had said decisively that she had 
seen Gregory Kendall’s grave, his first impulse had been 
to tell her the whole truth then and there. But he seldom 
acted upon impulse, and, moreover, he had not forgotten 
a promise made to Gregory. 

“ It is my wish,” that unfortunate man had said, during 
their very last interview, “ that you tell my wife abso- 
lutely nothing about me, my plans, my suspicions, my 
destination. I wish her not to know that you have heard 
anything more from me than my desire for you to attend to 


FOILED BY A CARPET- TACK. 169 

my business affairs. Wait three years, and if in that time 
nothing has been heard from me, you can tell her all you 
know. I have given her every opportunity to clear her- 
self from the suspicion of guilt. I sent her a letter by 
the hand of her nearest relative, who promised to deliver 
it in person. Her silence has confirmed my worst sus- 
picions. In three years’ time my child will be able to do 
without a mother’s care. If I am alive I shall return for 
her. But, Hugh ! ” — and the poor exile had sobbed out 
the rest — “ if it should turn out that, after all, there’s 
been some black mistake somewhere, and Kate’s not the 
thing my eyes declared her, you won’t leave me in ignor- 
ance any longer than can be helped, will you, old 
fellow ? ” 

And he had promised that he would not. Up to with- 
in the past forty-eight hours Hugh Gorham had not suf- 
fered one pang of ^f-reproach. From the date of his 
earliest acquaintance with Catherine Kendall he had 
believed her husband to be laboring under some hideous 
delusion. He had promptly recalled the exile by letter. 
Was it his fault that those letters never reached the wan- 
derer, who had chosen to alter all their mutual plans for 
his residence abroad ? Then he had quietly decided to 
take the best of care of Catherine through the allotted 
three years — it was not a lifetime — and if at the end of 
that time Gregory Kendall did not return to claim his 
child or his wife, he would institute such search for him 
as should insure a termination of all doubts and all sus- 
pense touching every point. Through two of those years 
he had passed scathless, only to be thrown fatally off his 
guard by over-eagerness to comfort the woman he loved 
for the petty insults of two worldlings. 

“They annoyed her ; I insulted her,” he said, bitterly ; 
“and, by Heaven ! I will not look upon her face again 
until she is once more safe in the keeping of that poltroon 
husband of hers, or I have such indisputable evidence of 
his death that I can approach her like a gentleman ! ” 

Late in the night the lawyer sat up writing letters and 
putting his affairs in order for a prolonged absence. The 
morrow he determined should find him gone on a pilgrim- 
age in search of Gregory Kendall. Among the letters he 
posted at dawn was this one to Catherine Kendall : 


170 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


Dear Madam — There are crises in every man’s life when to flee 
from evil becomes easier than to resist it. I have reached such a 
crisis. I had promised myself the doubtful pleasure of telling you 
what you will find here written ; but when this reaches you I shall be 
far enough away from any reproaches it may elicit from your severely 
just judgment. When Spencer Whitehurst was 9o mysteriously 
murdered, your husband, as you have lately discovered, madly sup- 
posed you to have committed the foul deed. In his anguish he came 
to me and made every effort to bring suspicion on himself, by way of 
shielding you from the possibility of detection. Believing that his in- 
sane conduct would eventuate in his punishment, as surely as if he 
were actually guilty, I got him out of town and experienced no diffi- 
culty in having him pronounced insane, which, for the time being, he 
undoubtedly was. I had resolved to have him safely stowed away in 
an insane asylum until the matter should blow over, preferring, then, 
that if you really were the guilty party, you should suffer the penalty 
of your own misdeeds instead of the old friend to whom I still felt 
warmly attached. On my way to the asylum I fell in wdth a young 
man who was bent on a similar errand, being about to commit to the 
same asylum a young Englishman, who, coming to this country to 
make money and failing, had hopelessly lost his mind. Careful in- 
quiiy revealed the fact that the Englishman had neither a friend ncr 
relative in this country, so I suddenly altered my plans for Gregory, 
resolving to ship him out of the country, but still leave the impression 
abroad that he was incarcerated, as suspicion was actually then turn- 
ing upon him. On the eve of his departure I foolishly allowed him to 
extract from me a promise to give you no information about him for 
the term of three years. When, upon your recent return from Spotts- 
town, you told me that you had been to Gregory’s grave, I resolved to 
tell you the whole truth then. For two insufficient (I now pronounce 
them) reasons I allowed the opportunity to pass. One was my prom- 
ise to Gregory. The other was, that I saw you had already recovered 
from whatever shock his death could cause you. A look of greater- 
serenity than I had ever seen there had come into your face. To tell 
you the truth, then, without being able to supplement it by some de- 
finite news of Gregory’s present whereabouts, was to throw you into a 
more troubled state of doubt and suspense than you had ever endured 
before, I could not do that ! I had thought to have taken good and 
patient care of you and his child until Gregory should return to demand 
an account of my stewardship. You best know how I have kept my 
good resolves. I am gone in search of your husband. I do not 
believe that he is dead. I have left your business affairs in such trim' 
at the bank that you will suffer no inconvenience from my absence. 
How long it will last, God only knows ! but the reflection that my 
pilgrimage is undertaken in your service, and that it may eventuate in 
increase of good and happiness to you, will sustain me through what- 
ever of hardship the journey may hold in store for me. I wish I 
might hear you say ‘I forgive you,’ before I go to make atonement 
for yesterday’s offending. H. G. 

The postman paused in wonder to deliver his first letter 
at Shropshire’s Stand. He reached it early in his rounds. 


"'WAY DO WN UPON THE OLD PL ANT A TION. ” 1 7 1 


No one responding promptly to his unwonted summons, 
he opened the gate, and stepping to the first door within, 
slipped the lawyer’s letter under the doorsill. A treacher- 
ous gape in the carpet received and hid it ; and under 
foot for many a desolate day to come Catherine Kendall 
trod Hugh Gorham’s explanation of the silence and the 
absence that made her days days of heaviness indeed. 


CHAPTER XXHI. 

“ ’way down upon the old plantation.” 

C ATHERINE KENDALL sat near an open window, 
buried in a profound reverie, retrospective and intros- 
pective. It was not her wont to sit with idly folded 
hands railing at Providence, or indulging in sweet self- 
pity. She had rather,-any day, work her troubles away 
than weep them away ; but there comes to us all at times 
the necessity for making decisions of such tremendous 
weight and everlasting importance, that nothing short of 
total physical abeyance leaves the brain free enough for 
its extraordinary labor. 

Such a necessity had come to Kate. She had been 
asked a question, and forty-eight hours only had been 
alloted her in which to make her choice between two 
little words, ‘‘ Yes” — or — “ No.” 

The window near which she sat was a handsome 
French affair, of noble dimensions, opening out upon a 
broad veranda. But a step from that veranda in one 
direction -and she could wander at will in a roomy old- 
fashioned garden, where nature and art ran riot in the 
matter of color and perfume, as they only can under the 
passionate kisses of hot Southern suns, or, in another, to 
find herself facing a venerable avenue of live-oaks that 
flanked a long, sloping carriage drive, terminating in a 
lofty arched gateway. Far away, on every hand, miles of 
whitewashed plank fencing, indicating the boundary lines 
of an immense estate, stretched before her, until the thin 
white line was barely visibly against the dense foliage of 
the encroaching forest. Conspicuously above all surround- 


172 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


ing objects rose the monumental smokestack of a cot- 
ton gin, from whose mouth curled skyward pale smoke- 
wreaths. Through the meadows, all gold and purple 
with the wild chamomile and brilliant iron-weed, huge 
wains, like drifting snow-banks, rolled slowly towards the 
gin, to feed the insatiable saws with the food they most 
craved. The yellow fodder-stacks were taking on pyra- 
midal dimensions. Overhead the crows wheeled and 
cawed with never-tiring persistency about the crowns 
of the lofty pecan-trees, resentful of the presence of the 
swarm of little darkeys scarce less black than themselves, 
who disputed with their crowships for the nutty harvest, 
while over it all brooded that magic haze with which 
October tenderly veils the dead Summer’s face from Au- 
tumn’s chill approach, as mortals veil their dear dead’s 
face from the cold gaze of an unloving stranger. 

All these objects had come to look familiar and home- 
like to Catherine Kendall. Early in the previous sum- 
mer — in fact, a very short while after Mr. Gorham’s unex- 
plained departure — a great change had taken place in 
Shropshire’s Stand. 

Sitting at work as usual in the alcove, Mrs. Kendall 
had been startled completely out of her carefully cultured 
composure by Betty’s sudden appearance within the al- 
cove, with the words : 

“ He’s come again. Miss Kate ! ” 

‘‘ He,” could possibly mean no one but Hugh Gorham 
— so with an affectation of indifference she was very far 
from feeling, she dipped her brush into the coloring 
matter as she said: 

“ Well, did he send you here to announce the fact ? ” 

“He did that very thing. Miss Kate ; and, moreover, 
he asked me to ask you if as how you would honor him 
by steppin’ to the front for aminit.” 

“ Stepping to the front ! ” Mrs. Kendall repeated, 
surprised and resentful. “ Tell the gentleman this is 
my place of business now,” and she resumed the chair 
she had risen from as Betty announced his coming. 

“ Indeed ; and, Miss Kate, I ain’t so sure as I would 
see him at all, am I ? Though he do look respectable 
enough like, and much more so the lady as is with 
him.” 


WAY DO WN UPON THE OLD PLAN2A TIONT 1 73 

“ Lady !” says Kate, with the tightening of the corners 
about her full red lips ; “ show them in here, Betty.” 

But that was not Hugh Gorham’s firm, ringing footfall 
that advanced towards her, nor did that slow, rhythmic 
sweep of a silken train betoken the sparrow-like activity 
of Mrs. Melmont’s tread. 

Rising, in quick surprise, Kate turned to meet the 
gentle, almost apolegetic, glance of an elderly gentleman, 
whose silvering hair shaded a pair of mildly benevolent 
blue eyes. 

“ Shropshire’s Providence come again ! ” Catherine 
almost articulated her surprise : but who was the tall, 
elegant woman of majestic mien and Madonna-like 
countenance by his side ? 

It was this lady who advanced with the easy grace of 
a woman of the world, saying : 

“ Mrs. Kendall, I believe ? ” and she extended a per- 
fectly gloved hand in greeting. “ My name is Haversham, 
Mrs. Kendall, and this is my brother. Colonel Ethan 
Haversham.” 

After they were all seated, Miss Haversham had con- 
tinued, going straight to the point : ‘‘ I have accom- 

panied my brother here to make a request, which will 
probably strike you with surprise at first, but we hope 
you will take it into careful and favorable consideration. 
I have been at the head of my brother’s household for 
some years past — my duties being a combination of 
housekeeper’s duties and teacher to his two motherless 
children. My health is gradually failing — I need female 
companionship and assistance — during the past two 
summers my brother has been an interested observer of 
your brave, self-reliant course ; we have heard a 
great deal about you from your family physician. Dr. 
Mclvor, who was under engagement to call here with us 
this morning, but was summoned out of town just as we 
started. We wish to know if you will accept the position 
offered, at any salary you may choose to indicate ? We 
do not ask you to decide at once. We will be absent 
from the city a month ; on our return we will call for 
your answer.” 

After a little more converse, in which Colonel Ethan 
Haversham had taken a quiet, courteous share, they had 


174 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


gone away, giving her a month in which to make up her 
mind. 

But it did not require a month for her to decide that, 
with no friends about her in a great bustling, busy city — 
with sordid labor for her share — and her child growing 
up the veriest prisoner within the shabby walls of 
Shropshire’s Stand, it would be the height of folly to 
refuse the offer made her. 

So, when they came back at the end of the month for 
her answer, they had found her ready to accompany 
them. For nearly a year now she had been an honored 
inmate of the luxurious home of the Havershams. And 
conscientiously she had striven to render herself useful to 
her strangely made friends. Not a cloud had flitted 
across the serene skies of her new life until that October 
morning of which we write, when she had been startled 
from her composure by the entrance of the white-haired 
master of the house into her school-room, after she had 
dismissed the children for the day. 

Courteously she had risen, and stood with her hand 
upon the back of her chair, to know his pleasure. 

“ Why do you do me such honor, madam ?” he had 
asked, with gentle impatience. “ It is rather I who 
should stand in your presence, despite the white hairs 
which provoke such undesirable reverence. But as I 
have come here for more than a moment’s chat, it will 
be best for both of us to be seated,” and, taking her hand, 
he had led her with stately courtesy to a sofa, upon 
which he seated himself beside her. 

“ Mrs. Kendall, I believe I have more than once heard 
you say that you were entirely alone in the world, have 
I not ?” 

“Yes, sir, I am entirely alone in the world,” she 
echoed his words simply and sadly. 

“ Have you ever found cause to regret your coming 
South with us ? ” 

“ None. You and Miss Haversham have been good 
and true friends to me and my child.” 

“ Would it cost you a pang to give us up ? ” 

Catherine started. Cost her a pang to give them up ? 
What else had she in view ? Where else could she look 
for shelter now that she had relinquished all her plans 


WAV DO WN UPON THE OLD F LAN TA TIONT 175 


of life. She sat in troubled silence. Her interlocutor 
watched her face with eager interest. He saw the trouble 
clouding her beautiful eyes, and taking her hand gently 
in his, he said, soothingly ; 

“ Dear lady, pardon me, if in my anxiety to extract 
some token of interest from you, I have caused you one 
moment’s uneasiness. I love you, Catherine, and I have 
come to you this morning to make you an honorable 
offer of my hand and heart. I have loved you silently for 
two years. I informed my sister Eunice of my condition 
and my resolution to offer you my hand. She only 
pleaded with me for an opportunity of learning some- 
thing of the woman I proposed to bring into lifelong 
companionship with .before I took the irrevocable step ; 
hence, temporarily, you have been placed in a situation 
very different from the one my pride and affection have 
destined you for. You have won the hearts of the whole 
household. The condition of my beloved sister’s health 
causes me great anxiety. A sea voyage is recommended 
for her. Will you accompany us on that voyage as my 
wife, Catherine ? I cannot woo you in polished sentences 
or poetical diction ; but if I am so fortunate as to win 
you, I will give you that which is of more sterling value 
than either, my dear — an earnest man’s lifelong devotion 
to your service.” 

It had all been said so quietly and simply that Kate 
was conscious of nothing but a half-dreamy surprise. 
She was so thankful to him when he rose from her side, 
saying : “ I do not want you to answer me Just yet. I 

see I have surprised you beyond measure. I hope not 
disagreeably so. Take time to think, my dear, and what- 
ever decision you come to, bear in mind that your hap- 
piness is dearer to me than my own and I will be your 
friend, come what may, unto life’s bitter end.” And then 
he had gone away and left her. 

This, then,, was what had set Catherine Kendall think- 
ing, pondering, reflecting on that quiet fall morning. 
On the one hand she saw wealth, refinement, ease, devo- 
tion< security from all the physical ills of life, shelter in a 
good man’s arms, surcease from labor, rest from petty 
contriving of ways and means ; Rosa sheltered in case 
she should be taken from her. Why should she say “ No” ? 


176 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


On the other hand, she saw the holocaust of a heart, 
a soul, a conscience. It was not only the absence of 
love for the gentle-hearted man who pleaded for the 
privilege of making her happy ; it was the active, living 
presence of a consuming passion for one who had 
crossed her pathway, apparently only to scorch and 
wither what few meagre blossoms of life and happiness 
still struggled there. Hugh Gorham had, in all proba- 
bility, gone out of her life for ever ; she never looked for- 
ward definitely to ever hearing his dear voice again or 
looking upon his dear face. All the same, she knew — 
and it came to her with crushing insistence now that she 
strove to turn to another — that she was in bondage to a 
memory. The words he had once spoken — the touches 
his hand had once given hers — the looks of pleasure or 
approbation he had once bestowed upon her, the ideas 
he had inculcated, the hopes he had inspired, were more 
to her, cold ashes though they might be, than all the 
breathing, living, loving realities any other man could 
offer her. Then, how dare she say “Yes” ? 

In the one event, she would wander forth with her 
child into the wilderness that this w'orld must ever seem 
to the poor and friendless, like Hagar of old, with none 
to care what fate befell. She must gird up her strength 
anew for the uneven fight for subsistence, enervated by 
the luxurious ease of the past year — made timid by the 
remembrance of her former trials. She must cast from her 
the sweet comfort of Eunice Haversham’s gentle com- 
panionship. She must trample under foot, with what 
would seem the blackest ingratitude, the best gifts a 
good man can lay at any woman’s feet — the gifts of a 
loyal heart and unsullied name. How could she say 
“ No”? 

In the other event, she must prepare to bury her wild, 
sweet hopes from human eyes ; to place the sepulchral 
stone over a buried past, fastening it with a cement of 
rigid resolves and secret tears, so that even — 

“ In the hereafter no angel may 
Roll the stone from that grave avray ! ” 

She must prepare to pronounce the truest, purest, most 
elevating affection of her life— its blackest transgression. 


CONVERGING RAYS. 


177 


She must narrow her life down to a formula, and square 
it by the rules of propriety, expediency, duty. How 
could she say “ Yes ” ? 

What she did finally say was this : 

“ If you are content to take me with a sealed past and 
only a woman’s word for your future security ; if you 
are content to take me with the simple assurance that I 
will try to be a comfort to your declining years ; if you 
are willing to accept gratitude as a substitute for affec- 
tion ; if you are ready to risk companionship with a 
woman made sour and irritable by a succession of hard- 
ships — I will marry you. I can promise you nothing 
better.” 

And he, looking compassionately into her cold, sad 
face, answered : 

“ I have long since passed the time of life when a man 
regards matrimony as an open sesame to an earthly para- 
dise. I am willing to take you on your own terms, Cath- 
erine, and I promise to bear with your shortcomings, as 
I hope you will bear with mine.” 

A long-drawn, shuddering sigh escaped her tightly 
compressed lips as she murmured: 

“ It is done ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CONVERGING RAYS. 

N ot less trying was the interview which followed 
when Eunice came to Haversham to “ thank ” her 
for her decision. 

“You know,” said that gentle lady, “Ethan is all I 
have left in the world of a large family of brothers and 
sisters. We were always a delicate race — heart-disease 
is one of our inheritances from our mother, and no words 
can tell the suspense I endured while waiting for your 
answer to him. I am sure, Catherine (I may call you so 
a little in advance, may I not ?), that an adverse decision 
would have been followed by serious consequences ; then 
have I not good reason to be thankful to you and to love 
you? 


178 


THE SILEHT WITNESS. 


“ No. I assure you, if you knew the cold-blooded, 
sordid train of calculation that led up to that decision, 
you would measure out to me unbounded contempt 
rather than thankfulness. I am making your brother 
but a poor return for the generous, unselfish affection 
he has bestowed upon me ; but I have not deceived 
him as to the state of my own feelings. Now, then, 
enough of that subject, please.” 

“ Well, then, to its collaterals,” says Miss Haver- 
sham, smiling kindly — such as time, style of enter- 
tainment, etc., etc. Ethan sent me to you this morn- 
ing with orders to extract your royal highness’s wishes 
on all these minor points.” 

‘‘ Your wishes concerning those details are more to the 
point than mine,” said Catherine, inwardly recoiling 
from expressing herself at all in the matter. 

” Thank you. I should prefer, then, to have it on the 
eve of our departure for Europe, and to combine the 
marriage-feast with Jessie Loring’s debut. You know 
she will return from school permanently at the end of 
this session, and an heiress of such great expectations 
is entitled to make her first appearance in society with 
some dclat. 

“I believe,” said Mrs. Kendall, ‘‘it is Col. Haver- 
sham’s desire that his ward should accompany us to 
Europe.” 

“Yes; which is the occasion of our shortening her 
school-term by one year. Jessie’s educational advan- 
tages have been all crowded into the two years she 
has been with us. Before that, she grew up in almost 
savage neglect, owing to the enfeebled condition of her 
mother, until Providence, or accident, threw a Mr. 
Raymond across their path, and he brought Jessie and 
her mother to New Orleans, put Jessie at a good school, 
and found comfortable quarters for the mother, who, 
however, died within a very few weeks of her arrival 
in the city. The mother had written to us before the 
father died : it seems he had some claim upon Ethan 
dating from their early manhood ; but my brother was 
away from home when the letter arrived, and, not being 
followed up by others, we had forgotten all about them, 
when a letter came from the young girl telling us that 


ConverCinC ra ys. 


179 


she was left desolate by the death of her mother and the 
absence of her one friend in California ; so Ethan and I 
went to her, and found that, by her mother’s last wishes, 
we had been left her personal guardians, while this Mr. 
Raymond in California had been left her sole business 
agent. He has kept Jessie liberally supplied with money, 
and, through a lawyer named Burton, has courteously sup- 
plied Ethan with all the information necessary concern- 
ing her property.” 

“ She is very pretty, is she not ? ” asked Kate, more by 
way of making talk than from any abstract interest in Miss 
Loring. 

“ We think her charming — so fresh and bright and orig- 
inal ! We have only had her with us once or twice. It 
was her own wish that her studies should be carried on 
without the usual interruption of vacations, to ‘ make up 
for lost time,’ she said.” 

“ There is another member of the family you have not 
yet spoken of,” said Kate, with some hesitation. “Will 
not her father desire her presence on the occasion ? ” 

She had forced herself to say what she believed would 
be left entirely to her to say. 

“You mean poor little Agnes? Yes. It appears to 
me we should have her home for the occasion; but I fore- 
warn you, Catherine, that she is an element of discord 
and turmoil in our happy home-circle. Totally deaf and 
dumb, she seems, withal, to be possessed of an unusually 
quick perception and grasp of ideas. It is wonderful. 
She has become- quite expert with her pen since she has 
been at the asylum, and expresses herself as freely and 
as tartly, I am sorry to add, as the best of us. The 
knowledge that she is not as other girls are seems to have 
soured her disposition. She is petulant and irritable to 
a degree that makes it hard work to please her, try as we 
may. And, withal, she is so pretty that one feels every 
sensation of anger swallowed up by ineffable pity. We 
had a cousin. Dr. Spencer Whitehurst, who firmly be- 
lieved that, as Agnes was not born dumb, but missed the 
faculty of speech from having lost her hearing by a fall 
from the nurse’s arms in infancy, he could cure her deaf- 
ness and restore the power of speech to her; but Spencer 
was always fanciful, and although his experiment in Agne§’ 


i8o 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


case was cut short by his sudden and violent death, I never 
believed it would come to anything.” 

Catherine had given an involuntary start at the name 
of Spencer Whitehurst — marveling that here, upon a re- 
mote Southern plantation, where, last of all, should she 
have expected to find any footprints in the sands of time, 
that name should suddenly be mentioned, to plunge her 
once more into the labyrinthine mazes of sorrow, guilt, 
misdoings and mistakes, of which it was the text ! 

An uncontrollable impulse led her to ask: 

Was it ever discovered who killed Dr. Whitehurst ? 
You know, I lived in New York at that time, and I re- 
member the intense excitement of this affair.” 

“ No — at least it was never made known. His mother 
was satisfied on that score, and suppressed all inquiry, 
saying, that as there had been but one witness to the kill- 
ing of her son, and that one a voiceless witness, inquiry 
would be tedious and would outlive the fleeting interest 
her son’s fate had inspired the public with. Revenge 
was not her object — and to know the murderer would not 
restore the murdered. Aunt was always eccentric in her 
views.” 

“ And the voiceless witness — ” said Kate. 

“ Was Agnes Haversham, my deaf and dumb niece. 
She was present in the office; but any allusion to the sub- 
ject threw her into such paroxysms of excitement that 
Aunt Whitehurst refused to allow the detectives to inter- 
view her. But where have we drifted? I hate even now 
to talk of that horrible affair — we all loved Spencer. 
Yes, I think we had best have Agnes home for the wed- 
ding. I will go for her myself when I go for Jessie 
Loring. Now, then, I must run away.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

RUN TO EARTH. 

Y OU are positive this is the place, my man ? ” 
There was great incredulity in the voice that 
asked the question, and great suspense in the 
eyes that glanced inquisitively about him on all sides, as 


RUN TO EARTH. 


i8l 

Mr. Gorham stood, purse in hand, preparatory to paying 
and discharging the hackman, who had just set him down 
at the gates of a noble-looking mansion in one of the 
handsomest suburbs of San Francisco, California. 

“ Sartin sure, stranger ! Every yearlin’ in the country 
’roun’ ’bout this could a-tole you whar Squire Raymin’ 
lived. We takes some stock in him, we do. ’Tain’t easy 
to ’stonish .folks out here in ’Frisco, but he done it, tho’ ! 
Seems like ’twere no longer ’go ’n yisterday sence he 
corned here po’ in flesh, po’ in puss, an’, seemed like, po’ 
in speerits, too ; but a fat puss soon puts flesh onto a 
man’s bones, an’ hope ento his soul ! ” 

“ But how did this ‘ Squire Raymond ’ make his sud- 
den fortune ? Was he a digger ? ” 

“ Never a dig digged he ! Speculatin’ in rale estate 
was wot dun the biz for ’im. Buyin’ a buildin’ lot this 
month, fur /^stance, say, at ten dollars a acre, an’ a-sellin’ 
of it nex’ month, fur instance, say, at a hundred dollars a 
acres — yes, an’ more, too.” 

“ But where did he get the money to speculate on ? ” 

“ Stranger,” said “cabby,” eyeing the city lawyer with 
comical curiosity, “ I believe I heard you say you corned 
all the way from York city — didn’t I ? ” 

“ You did.” 

“ An’ I sorter guessed for myself that you’ve corned 
a-huntin’ up our Squire Raymin’. Are that korect ? ” 

“ Perfectly correct.” 

“ Well, now, it do strike me as oncommonly cur’ous 
that you should a-comed this fur for to fine a man, and 
w’en you gits actooly sot down at that man’s fron’ do’ 
you should was’e your time axing questions ’bout him, 
which it’s nateral to s’pose he kin answer so much 
readyer than any other man livin’.” 

Mr. Gorham smiled, took the hint, paid the man his 
fare, and, passing through the handsome gateway, walked 
up a noble avenue of silver poplars towards the house 
which he was told was Maurice Raymond’s. 

In answer to his inquiries for “ Mr. Raymond ” he 
was shown promptly into a handsome library, where, 
seated at a large table covered with an array of legal 
documents, surrounded by every indication of wealth 
and refinement, himself habited in quiet elegance, sat 


i 82 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


the man whom four years previously he had hurried out 
of New York city to save his neck from the gallows. 

Gregory Kendall was bending in such studious absorp- 
tion over a sheet of paper that his pen was rapidly filling 
up, that he did not note the lawyer’s entrance behind him. 

Mr. Gorham motioned the servant to withdraw, silently, 
and stood for a moment motionless, as if to satisfy him- 
self of any lingering doubts about Gregory’s identity. 
Stood for a moment motionless, to wrap a dead hope in 
the winding-sheet of silence and consign it to the grave 
of oblivion. Stood for a moment motionless, while his 
strong soul wrestled with the one passion of his lifetime 
— wrestled and conquered ! Else how could he have 
uttered that calm, cool “ Gregory ! ” which caused the 
man at the table to spring to his feet with the eager 
gladness of a shipwrecked wretch who hears the cry of 
land ahead ! 

“ Hugh Gorham ! Hugh ! True to the last ! ” he 
cries, and, seizing his friend’s hands, the bronzed and 
bearded exile bends low over them to hide from the 
lawyer the blinding tears of joy that will not be repressed. 

“ Tears, boy ? tears ? ” the lawyer says, almost contempt- 
uously. “ I see no call for tears. Squire Raymond, the 
millionaire, housed luxuriously, served luxuriously — a 
nabob in the land ! No cares of married strife — ” 

“Was it for this, Hugh, that you have tracked me 
out ? ” said the exile, straightening himself up and meet- 
ing the lawyer’s cold glance with one of mournful 
reproach. “ Pardon me the excess of emotion I displayed 
in our greeting. But the surprise was great and over- 
powering. It takes me a long time to become perfectly 
callous. But come, be seated, and let me ring for cof- 
fee for you. Of course you are my guest until — ” 

“Until when?” Mr. Gorham asked, seating himself, 
but declining the offer of refreshments. 

“ I had intended,” Gregory began, hesitating between 
the syllables, as if not certain ; but this arbiter of his 
fate might know of some good reason why his intended 
plans should be rendered null and void — “ leaving here 
— to go for — my child — this day week. Oh, Hugh ! for 
God’s sake, if you have come here to tell me anything, 
be quick about it ! Do you suppose that four years of 


RUN TO EARTH. 


183 


absence and silence and reflection have killed the affec- 
tions and memories of a lifetime ? Not one word has 
ever floated to me to deny the evidence of my own eyes, 
and yet, away down in my heart a never-dying hope exists 
that she may be proven innocent.” 

‘‘None but a fool would ever have supposed her 
guilty,” said the lawyer, with almost savage abruptness, 
as he thought of the labyrinth of trouble and guilt and 
misery in which that wild error had involved not only 
the erring man before him, but Catherine, proud, inno- 
cent, adorable, and himself, passionate, hungering, disap- 
pointed. 

“ None but a fool would ever have supposed her guilty? 
Repeat it ! repeat it ! call me what you will ! Revile 
me, trample upon me, spit upon me ! Tell me that my 
own eyes lied to me ! Tell me that Eva Clay was a 
black-hearted traitress ! Only prove to me that Kate is 
not the thing I thought her ! ” 

“ I have not run you to earth after a year's unaided 
search for the doubtful satisfaction of calling you names, 
or reviling you, trampling upon you, or spitting upon 
you; but, upon my word, Gregory Kendall, I think you are 
richly entitled to any punishment that can be invented 
for you by one of the most outrageously wronged wives 
that ever existed. I repeat that none but a fool could 
know Catherine Kendall and believe her guilty of a 
crime. Your eyes did lie to you, and Eva Clay was a 
black-hearted traitress ! But all this I have written to 
you in my many efforts to restore you to your family.” 

“ I have never had a line from you ! ” 

“ That is scarcely to be wondered at, since you saw fit 
to change the whole programme of your movements, even 
to your destination. Come, let us settle down to a con- 
nected narrative of events on both sides since our sepa- 
ration. Aprh vous^ monsieur T 

It was evident from the calm, cool, even tenor of the 
lawyer’s speech and manner that he had himself well in 
hand once more. No mortal should ever suspect Hugh 
Gorham of being the victim of an unfortunate attachment 
to another man’s wife ; least of all, should that man 
himself suspect it. 

So, settling himself into one of the many luxurious 


184 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


arm-chairs with which Gregory’s library abounded, he 
lit a cigar, leaned back, with his cold gray eyes fastened 
upon Gregory’s worn but still strikingly handsome face, 
and prepared to listen to the tale of his old fag’s wander- 
ings and struggles that had led him to such glittering 
heights. 

And Gregory, beginning with the time of his departure 
from their mutually-agreed-upon programme, came cir- 
cumstantially down to the moment when Hugh Gorham 
had entered his presence, to find him. deep in prepara- 
tion of a paper which was to transfer his power of attor- 
ney in the matter of Jessie Loring’s estate to a lawyer, 
in the city of San Francisco, of tried ability and unques- 
tionable probity. 

“ And then,” he said, in conclusion, looking younger 
and brighter and happier with every word, “I was going 
round by New Orleans to resign my stewardship into the 
hands of Jessie’s personal guardian, and go on to New 
York for my child. Now, thank the Giver of all good, 
it will be wife and child who will come to put a meaning 
into this big pile of masonry and upholstery which I have 
tried so hard to call my home.” 

“But I find you still wearing your assumed name, 
after all necessity for it has worn away. Why is that ? ” 

“ Can you not understand, Hugh, that up to the present 
moment I have never had the lie given to my horrible 
suspicions, and even after the fear of consequences to 
her or to me were entirely dispelled, the horror of being 
known, out even in this rude section, as the man who had 
run away from a wife suspected of murder, was too mon- 
strous to be borne. Moreover, Maurice Gregory Ray- 
mond is honestly my name. Kendall was my step-father’s 
name ; but as he married my mother when 1 was only 
two years old, and they never had any children of their 
own, I gradually and naturally came to be called by his 
name instead of my own. Especially as, owing to change 
of location, very few people knew that I was not his own 
child. So that, in going by the name of Maurice Ray- 
mond, I simply dropped my own middle name. I sup- 
pose, in the wild misery of that time, when I fled, I did 
not think it worth while to tell you all this. My own 
share of the wealth you find me possessed of is greatly 


RUN TO EARTH. 


185 

exaggerated. Mrs. Loring generously insisted upon a 
fixed salary for her ‘agent.’ On that salary I have spec- 
ulated with a success far exceeding my wildest expec- 
tations. I am in easy circumstances. But Jessie’s 
interests, I am happy to say, have not suffered in my 
hands. She is enormously wealthy. And as via New 
Orleans will still be as good a route as any to lead me to 
my darling, I should prefer placing all the papers rela- 
tive to her property in her guardian’s hands myself. 
There is top much at stake to leave it to any mischance. 
I have learned my lesson in a bitter school. If I had 
gone to Kate instead of sending to her, what might we 
not all have been spared ! ” 

“ What might we not, indeed ! ” muttered the lawyer, 
between set teeth. 

Then he turned raconteur^ and told Gregory all that it 
was for him to know. Dwelling with merciless prolixity 
upon Kate’s loneliness, her friendless position, her noble 
efforts for the support of herself and child, and her mul- 
titudinous claims to the respect and admiration of every 
true man. 

“ Enfin ! ” he said, coolly knocking the ash from his 
cigar, “ nothing remains for us to do now but to hurry 
up our return to New York city, where you will hasten 
to fling yourself in repentant abasement at your lovely 
wife’s feet, and she will weep tears of joy and forgiveness 
over her returned prodigal ; and Rosa’s sweet little arms 
will entwine you, and Betty’s honest drops bedew you, 
and you will all pass arm-in-arm through gates of Cali- 
fornia gold into this earthly paradise, and live for ever 
after in the enjoyment of wealth and domestic felicity, 
and Shropshire’s Stand will be but a remembered night- 
mare, and Hugh Gorham be admitted to the happy 
family in the capacity of a faithful and harmless go- 
between.” 

“ Hugh,” said Gregory Kendall, looking at him with 
an almost wistful tenderness, “I wish it were possible for 
you to fall in love with some woman. Man cannot live 
by brain alone, old fellow, and, after all, it is to woman 
that we owe every drop of sweetness that mingles with 
our wine of life. Without her we may investigate the 
daws of science, chain the lightnings of heaven, pile up 


i86 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


the golden treasures of the earth, burrow into the secrets 
of the ancients, but we cannot live!" 

“ But what, if to investigate, to chain, to pile up and 
to burrow satisfies every need of a man’s nature, my boy ? 
You know we’re not all cast in the same mold,” and the 
lawyer yawned in admirable assumption of sleepiness, 
adding, under his breath, “ There shall be greater re- 
joicing over this one that is found than over ninety-and- 
nine that went not astray. There’s justice for you ! ” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE SILENT WITNESS. 

T he day was rapidly approaching which had been 
appointed for Catherine Kendall’s marriage to Ethan 
Haversham. For weeks beforehand relatives from 
a great distance had been arriving. There was to be a 
regular “ mustering of the clans,” Colonel Ethan had 
said, with mild jocularity, his own mild features beaming 
upon every fresh arrival with a sort of placid content, at 
which Catherine marveled greatly. “ It takes little in- 
deed to satisfy him,” she thought,' “ this is the veriest 
bill of exchange that ever was made. He offers me ease, 
protection, shelter ; I return him friendship, esteem, 
supervising care. I feel as if my heart and soul were 
incumbrances I would gladly rid myself of — they will be 
altogether useless, and fearfully in the way in my new 
walk of life.” 

Eunice had gone for “the girls” — that meant Jessie 
Loring and Agnes Haversham — and so the whole burden 
of entertaining the clans rested upon Catherine’s shoul- 
ders. She was not sorry for this. Solitude was a doubt- 
ful boon, reflection an unmitigated evil. So she moved 
about among the guests who had assembled to witness 
the elevation of a poor governess to the dignity of a 
wealthy mistress of the family, with an assumption of 
superb indifference to what any one of them or the whole 
united tribe together should think of her or him, or it. 
Her very indifference hedged her about with an appear- 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 187 

ance of hauteur that inspired awe in the most daring 
guest assembled. 

To keep them all amused and in motion until the fate- 
ful evening should arrive, seemed the object towards 
which she bent her energies with nervous eagerness. 
Anything but letting them sit about the house and gossip 
to her or about her. 

Lawn tennis, croquet, archery — she kept them in mo- 
tion. It was the evening on which she hoped and looked 
for Eunice’s return, that she marshaled her forces for 
one last trial of skill at archery. The target was planted 
in a pretty little glade surrounded by shrubbery, some 
distance from the house. It was early in Spring, and as 
she joined the party waiting for her upon the lawn. Col- 
onel Haversham reminded her, with gentle forethought, 
that she would need a wrap before their return to the 
house. 

She rejoined them presently with a light cashmere 
scarf thrown about her shoulders — it was one of her old- 
time belongings — a cashmere scarf that Gregory had 
selected for her — she studiously avoided any display of 
splendor before the clans. 

“ You will tell Miss Haversham that we are in the 
glade, if she arrives before our return and ask her to 
join us there with the young ladies,” Colonel Haversham 
had said to the servant in waiting, as they made their 
start. 

The usual luck of amateurs attended this archery 
practice — many misses to a few hits — much giggling, 
quantum sufficit of mock despair, manly encouragement 
from attending beaux — charming affectations of timidity, 
universal awkwardness and sublime incapability. In 
graceful apathy Catherine Kendall stood awaiting her 
turn at the target. She was never afflicted with that 
especial feminine nervousness that renders it absolutely 
necessary to be doing something with her hands. She 
could stand like a marble statue while consumed with 
inward restlessness. 

She was standing like one now. Always proudly erect 
and firmly planted upon her small, arched feet, her head 
was thrown into an attitude of rapt attention as she 
watched the erratic movements of the misguided arrows, 


i88 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


Her right arm hung listlessly by her side, and in her 
right hand was the arrow with which presently she was 
going to try her skill in the game. Colonel Haversham 
stood a little in advance of her, when suddenly, above the 
chatter, and the giggling, and the laughing ejaculations 
of the group, there sounded a strange panting noise, as 
of some animal well-nigh frightened or exhausted unto 
death, and with a whir of drapery that rustled like the 
uprising of startled wings, Agnes Haversham sped by 
the astonished group, and sprang wildly into her father’s 
outstretched arms ! Burying her head in his bosom, she 
clung to him in what seemed an agony of terror. Softly 
and caressingly her father passed his hand over the 
shining rings of curly brown hair that crowned the girl’s 
pretty head ; she submitted quietly to be soothed, but 
every effort on his part to raise her head from his bosom 
but served to tighten her convulsive grasp of his neck. 

“ What can it mean ? ” said the father, looking help- 
less upon the faces clustered about him. “ Ah ! there 
comes Eunice : perhaps she can give us some clew ! ” 

“ She is overcome with joy,” suggested one relative. 
“You know she has been separated from you so long.” 

“ I scarcely think it was that. It is not probable that 
agitation at the sight of myself, Colonel Haversham, may 
probably have shaken her so. If you could only get her 
to look at me. Mutes are said to be acute character 
readers ; they judge one by the expression of the eye.” 
Catherine said this, and stepping close to the father, she 
placed her firm, white hand under the girl’s dimpled 
chin, and turned the pale face upwards, so that she 
might look into her eyes and make mute promises of love 
and kindness to the frightened child whose ears were 
sealed to any verbal promises from the woman who was 
about to take her dead mother’s place. 

“ Look at me,” said Catherine’s eyes, plainly, posi- 
tively, kindly. 

And she looked into the brown eyes of the mute only 
to see the horror increasing in them, darkening and di- 
lating them until in a perfect frenzy of rage, or terror, 
she flung her father’s detaining arms away and sped back 
to the house as if demon-haunted. 

Miss Haversham met her on the way, and sending 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


189 


Jessie forward to meet the group with her apologies, she 
followed the mute to the house. She found her crouch- 
ing in fear in her own little up-stairs room — her head 
buried in the pillows as she knelt by the bedside. She 
looked upwards as her aunt’s gentle arm was placed 
about her quivering form, and asked, with trembling 
fingers : 

“ Did you not point out the tall lady, standing so 
straight and still, as the one my father was going to 
marry ? ” 

And Eunice answered by the same medium : 

“ 1 did ; and you told me you were glad your father 
was going to be happy, and to have some one to take 
care of him. You promised me you would treat her 
kindly and try to love her.” 

“ I know I said all that ! I meant it all, too ! But, 
Aunt Eunice, I cannot love the woman who killed my 
cousin Spencer ! ” A spasm of horror passed over 
the young girl's face, and once again she buried her face 
in the pillows. 

Eunice forcibly raised her to her feet, and looking at 
her, as if she would exorcise the demon of suspicion in 
that poor, afflicted soul, moved her fingers rapidly to 
say : 

“ Agnes ! have you come home to kill your father ? 
He loves that woman ! A pure, good woman, against 
whom no breath of slander was ever wafted. What do 
you mean ? ” 

“ I mean what I say ! She killed my cousin, Spencer 
Whitehurst, and I can prove it, and I will prove it ! ” 

“ How, when, where ? ” Eunice telegraphed in quick 
succession, adding, “you must promise me to be careful. 
Remember, Agnes, heart-disease is in our family. A 
shock and your father’s life-cords would snap. Prove it 
to me, if you can, but promise me — promise me, girl — 
to spare your father ! ” 

A strange glitter was in Agnes Haversham’s bright 
eyes, as her expert fingers rapidly t6ld off her reply : 

“ I promise you nothing ! I am going to prove that 
she killed my cousin — I am going to keep my father 
from marrying a murderess ! To-night is one night, to- 
morrow one little day, and I would have been too late t 


190 THE SILENT WI'T^SS. 

God sent me here to keep you from putting a murderess 
into my darling mother’s place. I loved mother ! I 
loved my cousin ! That woman killed him. Go away 
from me. I hate you every one ! ” 

Eunice Haversham was too sadly familiar with the 
varying phases of the girl’s passionate nature to care to 
prolong the discussion. It was never easy to reason 
with Agnes, but when she had real or fancied cause of 
complaint against any one, argument served but to lash 
her into a wilder fury. There was nothing for it but to 
watch her so closely that she should find no opportunity 
of conveying to her father, with startling suddenness, 
the suspicions which she (Eunice) believed to be born 
of some wild fancy in the girl’s own brain. 

But it was with a heavy feeling of responsibility weigh- 
ing her down, that she took her place at the head of the 
tea-table, after having sat by Agnes until she fell into a 
dreamless slumber. 

“ What did it mean, Eunice ? ” Colonel Haversham 
asked his sister, lingering behind the rest of the family 
when they retired from the table. “ Had you not ex- 
plained to her before your arrival that she would find the 
house full ? You know she has always seemed to entertain 
a peculiar horror of a crowd.” 

“ I had explained everything to her. Told her you 
were to be married to-morrow. Described the lady. Ex- 
plained to her that, owing to the distance from which 
they had to come, some of our nearest relatives were al- 
ready on hand, and, contrary to my expectations, she 
took it all very quietly, and finally said that she believed 
she w’Ould be glad about your marriage, if you were going 
to marry some one who would be good to you and make 
you happy. She seemed overjoyed at being brought 
home, and was her brightest, best self all the way home. 
She seemed childishly eager to see the lady you were to 
marry, and when we followed you to the glade, she 
asked me as soon as we came in sight of the target to 
point Catherine out to her, which I did. She stood for 
a second as if turned to stone, breathing in a wildly ex- 
cited manner, then flung up her hands with that guttural 
moan which is the only sound that ever issues from her 
poor lips, and flew towards you as you saw. That is all I 


THE BITTER END, 


I9I 

know, and I can offer you no solution to her strange con- 
duct. That is, if you are going to be unwise enough to 
seek for a solution. Poor Aggie’s vagaries ought to be 
passed over by every one with as little notice taken of 
them as possible!” 

“ Right, as always, my dear Eunice ; my afflicted child 
was probably excited more than she was herself aware of 
at the news you had given her, and then the necessity of 
mixing with strangers, which we know has always been 
peculiarly painful to her, threw her into one of her 
ungovernable spells. I will go to her as soon as she 
awakes.” 

“ On the contrary, Ethan, I wish you would studiously 
avoid going to her. You know our former experience of 
our poor girl has taught us that her conscience is her 
best counselor, and reflection her surest mentor. You 
cannot coax. or argue her out of her present vagary. 
Leave her to me.” 

“ As you think best. But this is rather a saddening epi- 
sode, is it not, dear Eunice ? I dislike it more on Cath- 
erine’s account than on my own.” 

“ It is not just as we would have preferred it,” Eunice 
answered, with a tired smile ; “ but, after all, brother, what 
earthly realization ever does retain the brilliant coloring 
of its expectation ? I pray God that an afflicted child’s 
vagaries be the only cloud darkening your skies ! ” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE BITTER END. 

T he day ! the hour ! the moment ! almost, had been 
marked upon Fate’s dial-plate for the consumma- 
tion of Catherine Kendall’s soulless promises. She had 
spent the day in her room. Only twice had her complete 
seclusion been intruded upon. Once by a servant bring- 
ing her some refreshments : a second time by a strangely 
unexpected visit from Agnes Haversham. 

Gliding into her presence noiselessly, the mute girl 


192 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


had stood before her pale but calm, scanning her face 
with her large, earnest, brown eyes, in a manner which 
Catherine inwardly pronounced natural, but extremely 
disagreeable. She held out her hand in kindness, but 
the girl had resolutely folded her own small palms rigidly 
one within the other, in token of refusal. Then her eyes 
had gone roving restlessly about the apartment until they 
lighted upon the cashmere scarf which Catherine had 
thrown about her shoulders the previous evening. Dart- 
ing at it, Agnes had appropriated it, and, with a strangely 
triumphant glitter in her bright eyes, had almost run out 
of the room. 

“ I have heard,” said Mrs. Kendall to herself, “ that 
these poor creatures had a great love of bright colors, 
and, moreover, that they were universally characterized 
by acquisitiveness. I suppose that poor thing found it 
easier to appropriate my pretty scarf than to ask for it. 
I am sure she is welcome to it, if, by the laws of compen- 
sation, its gay colors can alford her any real pleasure — ” 
with these passing thoughts she had dismissed the subject 
of Agnes’s strange visitation, and reverted to the grave 
matter of her own approaching doom. “ If it were not 
for Rosa! ” she kept murmuring. “ But I cannot see her 
grow up in poverty and ignorance! My child! my child! 
will you ever know the price your mother is paying for 
your immunity from hardship ? ” 

Then her soul soared upwards in one earnest, last peti- 
tion to be enabled to do her duty faithfully in her new 
walk in life ; to be kept from sinful repinings, and, above 
all, for the strength to keep the doors of her soul securely 
barred against the importunate appeals of voices from the 
past. 

Carefully, but with a cold indifference to effect, she had 
arranged her beautiful brown coronet of glossy hair in her 
usual style, relieving its plainness by a solitary white 
camellia pinned at the side, had arrayed herself in the 
pearl-gray silk she had selected for the occasion, and 
fastened, at her throat and wrists, the soft lace that 
was her richest possession. Her costuming was 
completed, and, with a quiet listlessness, she folded 
her icy-cold hands in her lap to await the dreadful 
summons. 


THE BITTER END. 


193 


A quick, light footfall coming up the corridor, and 
pausing at her door, made her start and glance, with 
frightened eyes, at the clock on the mantel. 

“ They are coming for me! ” she almost gasped ; “but it 
is not yet eight — one hour of grace ! Oh, my God, pity 
and forgive me and sustain me I ” 

“May I come in ?“ asked a sweet, girlish voice ; and, 
in answer to Catherine’s assent, Jessie Loring entered the 
room, all lovely in her bridesmaid’s array. 

“Why, child! ’’said Mrs. Kendall, bending down to 
kiss her sweet, flushed face, “ one would think it was 
your own bridal! How I wish it was! Your eyes sparkle 
like diamonds ; and, Jessie! — ^why, child, you are trem- 
bling like a leaf ! ’’ 

“ Something so strange has happened ! I ought to feel 
glad ! But I’m frightened. Oh, Mrs. Kendall, tell me 
what it means. He is down-stairs ! Mr. Raymond ! and 
that makes me glad ! There’s somebody with him — a 
cold, dark, stern-looking man ! They came by here, he 
said — they said,’’ she continued, excitedly, “just to see 
me — to leave some papers with me I ought to have ! 
They asked, he said, to see my guardian. I told him 
that he was to be married in a very few moments, and 
could scarcely be asked to attend to any business to-day. 
Just then Rosa — you know I’ve been keeping her with 
me all day — came bounding into the room ; but Mr. 
Raymond only smiled at first, and said : ‘ What is your 
name, little sweet ? ’ But when she Sixid, ‘ Rosa Kendall,’ 
he threw up his hands in the wildest, strangest way, and 
turned towards his friend with such a groan of anguish 
as I hope I may never hear again on earth. I did not 
know what to make of it all, and I don’t now, only the 
strange gentleman turned to me and asked me very 
courteously if there was a Mrs. Kendall staying here ; 
and when I told him. Yes, he asked me if I would bring 
you this piece of paper. I’ve brought it ; but, oh ! 
please, please don’t look like that ! What is it ? What 
does it all mean ? You frighten me so ! ” 

Catherine had taken the paper out of her hand and 
had read on it the name of “ Hugh Gorham ! ’’ That he 
was down-stairs, waiting to see her, was all she knew, 
when she swept silently past Jessie Loring and directed 


194 


THE SILENT PV/TNESS. 


her steps towards the library, where the girl had told her 
she would find “ them.” 

Why should he have sought her in company of another ? 
was the one conjecture she remembered afterwards to 
have entertained. 

The room was dimly lighted in which the two men sat. 
Hugh Gorham advanced to meet Catherine. For cold- 
ness, calmness, self-possession, and superb hauteur, the 
» man and the woman were well matched, as they stood 
for a second face to face, unheeding the crouching figure 
there on the sofa behind them, where Gregory Kendall’s 
famished eyes were feasting upon the beauty of the wife 
whom he feared he had outraged beyond all hope of 
forgiveness. 

“Why this eleventh-hour advent?” said Catherine, 
letting her eyes rest in one reproachful, all-revealing 
glance upon the face of the man before her. 

“To prevent a crime ! ” he answered, slowly, sternly, 
sadly. 

“ Crime ! Yes ; you are right ; it is well to have the 
courage to give things their right names. If it is a crime 
for a woman deserted of all mankind — storm-tossed, 
world-weary, despairing — to accept the only shelter of- 
fered her, I am about to commit a crime.” 

“ He means the crime of bigamy, Catherine ! ” It was 
Gregory Kendall who spoke this time, stepping suddenly 
before her, and looking down into her face with his own, 
all alive with love, pity, and remorse. “ I do not blame 
you, my darling. It is all my fault ; I have been a 
monster of suspicion and cruelty to you in the past ! I 
drove you to this extremity. I dare not utter one word 
of reproach ! I only thank God I am not too late. You 
will pardon me my cruel suspicions of you, Katie, dear, 
and I will forget how soon I was forgot ? But I wTOte 
to you, Kate, and begged you to set me right, if I w^as 
wrong. You never did it. I wrote to Hugh, and begged 
him to let me know if I might come back to you ! He 
never did it. A strange fatality, mingled with black 
treachery, has helped to keep us apart. I have been a 
sore-hearted, lonely exile for four years, Kate, all for love 
of you — my own mad, foolish, misjudging love, perhaps, 
but, all the same, fadeless, true, undying love for you. 


THE BITTER END. 


195 


my wife ! But we’re young yet, my darling, and we will 
live long enough for the memory of these four bitter 
years to fade into the dim past and be forgotten ! Not 
one word, wife ? — not one word of greeting, of affection, 
or of pardon ? ” 

She turned from him with an expression of absolute 
bewilderment to Hugh Gorham, saying : 

“ Who is that man, and what is he saying ? ” 

Taking her cold hand in his, Mr. Gorham told her the 
whole story from beginning to end, as gently as he would 
have told the story of some mighty, incomprehensible 
fact to a child whose grasp of mind was scarcely equal 
to its immensity. 

“ I wrote you all this,” he added, in conclusion, and 
cannot comprehend why you never heard it ! ” 

(How could he, when his letter was at that very 
moment still lying between the carpet and the floor of 
what was now Betty’s room at Shropshire’s Stand }) 

Then she turned her eyes for the first time upon 
Gregory’s warm face, and said to him, speaking slowly 
and cruelly : 

“ So you have come back to me ! Come back to me 
after years of causeless desertion ! Come back to me 
and called me ‘wife ! ’ ‘ Katie ! ’ ‘ darling ! ’ Come back 
to me, thinking to find me humble, pliant, forgiving ! 
Ready to fall upon your neck and weep tears of joy over 
my returning prodigal ! Ready to take up my shattered 
home-life and patch it with your promises of future 
kindness — cement it with your tears of penitence ! 
Ready to absolve you from every suspicion of your 
wrong-doing at your first whisper of repentance ! Never^, 
never ! never ! I can no more return to the old paths 
than last year’s roses can bloom again on their withered 
stalks. I find not one throb even of pity quickening my 
pulses at the sight of your face and the sound of your 
voice. What I am you have made me. What seed of 
hardness, of coldness, of bitterness you sowed in my 
heart, now reap for your own harvest of future woe! 
Yes, I do feel the promptings of pity ; I do myself less 
than justice in denying it. But you have wronged me 
beyond all hope of forgiveness. I cannot unsay what I 
have said. Gregory Kendall, I have done with you ; 


i(j6 


tii£ silent witness. 


but come you with me " (laying her hand upon the 
lawyer’s arm) ‘‘ and help me to undo what I had almost 
done to a true, good man.” 

Without waiting to watch the effect of her words upon 
the wretched man, who with earnest reproaches cowered 
beneath her, Catherine, still holding firmly by the law- 
yer’s arm for the support she so much needed, threaded 
her way by the most private passages towards Colonel 
Haversham’s library. Entering it without knocking, for 
in her agitation such small observances sank into insig- 
nificance, she found the man whom she had come there 
only to crush seated in his large, leathern chair, with his 
back to the door, and only the crown of his stately head 
visible to her as she entered. 

“ Colonel Haversham ! ” 

She called his name in soft, strangely apologetic 
accents. But no answer came to her call. Sweep- 
ing towards him, she bent over him to touch his shoulder, 
and started back aghast ! 

Lying upon the desk before which he sat was her own 
cashmere scarf ; pinned to it was the following note — 
his hand was laid heavily upon the scarf, and his breath 
was coming fast and thick from purple lips : 

“You are about to marry the woman who killed my cousin, Spen- 
cer Whitehurst ! I entered his office before she had fled ! I stood 
behind her back ! She did not see me ! She had on this scarf ! 
When she fled it caught in the door and wrenched away a piece of 
the fringe — I saved it ! I have fitted that piece into the rent in the 
corner ! Look for yourself ! And then look fpr me ; but you will 
never find me ! Agnes. ” 

“ She has saved me and killed her father ! ” was Cath- 
erine Kendall’s first exclamation, as her glance took it 
all in at one horrified glance. 

Then, mustering all his dying energy for one last trib- 
ute to the object of his loyal love, Ethan Haversham 
moved his trembling hand until it rested heavily on the 
accusing paper, and from his turgid lips came his last 
earthly utterance : 

“ I pronounce it a lie ! Look for my poor child ! 
Forgive her for my sake ! ” 

One convulsive throe of his massive form, a backward 


J^OSA MAlCES A CHOICE. 


197 


motion of his head until it rested upon his chair, and the 
pure soul of a good man had gone to meet its Maker ! 

Heart-disease was the verdict rendered by the social 
as well as the medical judges, and many a pitying com- 
ment was uttered for the poor young widow, who had 
thus had her cup of happiness suddenly dashed from her 
lips by a dispensation of Providence. 

“ Heart-disease suddenly precipitated by the mysteri- 
ous disappearance of his afflicted daughter, who reso- 
lutely refused to witness her father’s second marriage,” 
was the crystalized rumor that society finally accepted. 

And only Catherine and one other ever knew the truth. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

ROSA MAKES A CHOICE. 

“ pREGORY KENDALL, I have done with you for 

VjT ever ! ” With those words ringing in his ears, 
scorching their way into his soul, maddening his 
brain, the unhappy man fled away from the light and 
the warmth and the glitter of the brilliantly lighted 
mansion of the Havershams into the outer darkness and 
silence and gloom that were so much more in unison 
with his own broken heart and desolated life. 

What was all his accumulated wealth to him now ? 
What was all the beauty of the home he had adorned so 
lavishly ? since she had elected to live in poverty and 
toil rather than share it with the man who had wronged 
her ? 

A month later Hugh Gorham had come to him with 
her final decision, written in her own firm, bold, chirog- 
raphy, dictated by her own unalterable determination. 
It read thus : 

“ I owe a duty to our child. It is not for me to decide that she 
shall share my lot of toil and poverty in place of the luxury of your 
home. She shall decide for herself. Three months from to-day she 
shall go to you. Go to you from my humble home and meager 
board. Go from my poverty to your affluence, unprejudiced by 
word of mine. Three months from the day upon which she goes to 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


198 

you, I will come to your place of residence in New Orleans. Then 
shall she make her choice of a father or a mother of affluence or 
poverty.” 

And the child had come to him as the mother had 
promised. A little, frightened, timid stranger at first, 
who walked about the big house, in which she was treated 
with all the honors due an imprisoned Queen Titania, 
very much as might a freshly captured canary-bird tim- 
idly investigate the gilded bars of its cage. But the bird 
had gotten used to its pretty cage at last, and sang 
blithely and gayly and perpetually, to the unspeakable 
comfort of the sad-browed father, who hung upon her 
every look and every motion and every word with trem- 
ulous happiness. 

She had come there with Betty, who still ministered to 
her wants — had been told that this sad-browed gentle- 
man was her father, and that she was to love him ; a 
peremptory demand upon the exchequer of her young 
affections which would probably not have been honored 
if her father had not bent himself so assiduously to the 
task of winning back the little heart whose allegiance was 
his by birthright. 

He had nothing to do but to enjoy the precious loan 
of his child and to surround her by every source of pleas- 
ure that his fancy could suggest or money procure. 
Nevertheless, it was with a sinkingheart that he watched 
the dawn of the day on which Rosa was to make her 
choice. 

A dull, cheerless, gray November dawn it was, deep- 
ening in dullness, cheerlessness, and grayness, till the 
early nightfall shut out the dreary view of wet windows 
and slippery sidewalks and dejected wayfarers. 

All day Mr. Kendall had remained indoors in momen- 
tary expectation of Catherine’s arrival. He knew her too 
well to believe it possible for her to forget that this was 
the day for Rosa’s decision, or to hope that she had fal- 
tered in her own. With a forlorn hope of tempting her 
back to his sheltering care, he had displayed a pathetic 
anxiety that all within his luxurious home should be put 
in as cheerful contrast to the dreary outside world as 
possible. The house was aglow with warmth and light 
and hot-house flowers — Rosa was habited in her prettiest 


J^OSA MAKES A CHOICE. 


199 


garments — a sumptuous feast was to be kept in readiness, 
for one final assault was to be made to bring that obdu- 
rate heart to terms, and this dark day of disaster might 
yet terminate in the glory of a total reconciliation. 

Nine o’clock — half an hour had elapsed since he had 
heard the whistle of the last incoming train for that 
night. Half-past nine — and still he and Rosa kept 
lonely watch in the big parlors, while the rain pattered 
remorselessly on the plate-glass windows outside the 
heavy curtains. 

“ Papa, I’m sleepy ! ” says Rosa, peremptorily, “ and 
I’se going to bed.” 

“ Without seeing your mother, my daughter ? You 
know we are looking for her to-night.” 

“ Can’t mamma come and sleep in my bed with me jus’ 
like she used to ? ” Rosa asks, heroically trying to suppress 
a yawn. 

“ Oh ! my darling, my darling, would that she might 
win her back to me ! Make her stay with us. Tell her 
that she must not go away from us again ! ” 

“ Papa, what makes her want to stay away from us ? 
It’s ugly up there. We don’t have no carpets, and no 
fire in our bedroom — and mamma sews and cries and 
cries, and dresses ugly, and we never, never, never has pies 
for dinner! It’s so much nicer here. Won’t you let her 
stay, papa ? And then mamma can have fire, too, and 
pies, too, can’t she ? ” 

Every word that fell from his child’s innocent lips cut 
Gregory Kendall to the soul. 

Such a picture of want and hardship for Catherine, 
and he sheltered from the very winds of heaven ! 

“ She’s come ! she’s come 1 ” cried Rosa, at last, and 
bounded from her seat in an ecstasy of joy as the door 
suddenly and quietly opened to admit a tall figure, 
enveloped in a dripping waterproof dress. 

“ Don’t touch me, child ! ” were Catherine’s first 
repellent words. “I will chill you — it is raining and I 
cannot touch you for your own sake. There, kiss me, 
and go back to the fire.” 

Slowly following the child, she stood once more near 
her husband, whose hand Rosa was now clinging to in an 
attitude of affectionate familiarity. 


200 


THE SILENT WITNESS, 


“ Mamma,” the little one said, looking up brightly 
into the pale, cold face of her mother. “Isn’t you 
corned here to-night to stay with me and papa always ? 
It is so nice here, mamma — I’m always warm — and never 
gets tired of waiting for somebody to talk to me like 
when you was always working — and, oh, mamma, wait 
till I goes and brings you my lovely dolls ! ” with which 
she bounded lightly out of the room. 

“ I am answered,” said Catherine, turning her white face 
from her child’s retreating form towards Gregory, as he 
sat with bowed head and sad eyes riveted upon the dancing 
flames of the fire ; he raised them imploringly to say : 

“ Catherine ! once more I conjure you by every tie 
that bound us in the past, by every hope of happiness 
possible for either of us in the future, by the present tie 
of our darling child, whose rearing and molding into 
true womanliness should unite us in one labor of love 
and delight, come back to me ! What is affluence to me 
unless you share it? What is comfort to me with you in 
discomfort ? What is leisure to me with you laboring for 
your daily bread ? I offer not one plea in extenuation 
of my past wild error. I offer not one plea in my own, 
yearning behalf. For your own' sake and for our child’s 
come back to us ! Stay with us — put your hand in mine. 
Oh ! my wife, unlock those rigid lips and grant me my 
pardon ! Remember that to err is human, Kate ; to 
forgive, divine ! ” 

“ I have not one atom of divinity in my whole com- 
position,” she answered, drearily ; “ but you ask impossi- 
bilities of me. You would be a perpetual, living, daily 
reminder of horrors, to forget which is my one chance of 
peace upon earth. Happiness and I have long since 
forgot each other. I did not come here to reproach you, 
nor to open dead issues. I came for Rosa’s answer, and 
I have had it in her blooming cheeks, her clinging affec- 
tion to you, her happy little face.” 

“ She knows of no issue between us. You must make 
her put her decision into words. I cannot. It is too 
horrible to make our little one choose between us when 
her young affections should be twining themselves 
impartially about both parent stems, binding us ever 
closer and closer together.” 


/?OSA MAKES A CHOICE. 


201 


“And yet,” said Catherine, flinging one solitary 
taunt at him, “you did not hesitate to remove one parent 
stem entirely without her reach.” 

If he had wanted to answer he could not have done 
so, for, laughing, chattering, exclaiming, introducing and 
recommending special dolls for admiration, Rosa was 
back with her arms and lap full of her treasures. 

“ My little daughter ! ” said Catherine, circling the child 
with her arms, forgetful in that supreme moment of her 
own recent prohibition against close contact — “ my little 
girl, you are very happy here ? ” 

“ Yes’m, 'course 1 is, mamma ; but, oh ! jes’ see, you 
wetted my po’ Susie’s blue silk dress all up, mamma ! ” 
“ Never mind, my own,” said Gregory, quickly, his 
heart aching over that proud, resolute mother, who in 
her turn was about to suffer the penalty of exile. 

“ Child,” said Catherine, almost harshly, “do you want 
to go home with me to-night ? ” 

“ This is home,” says Rosa, simply, “for me, and you 
and papa ; he says so. Didn’t you, papa ? ” 

“ Rosa, lay your dolls down and come to me,” says 
Gregory. And the child obeys unquestioningly. “ My 
little daughter, your papa has not taken good care of you 
as your mamma has. He went away from you and stayed 
a long, long time. Your mother, all that time, worked 
for you and loved you and watched over you. She does 
not want to live in our home, but she wants you to live 
in her home with her. You shall take all your dolls and 
pretty things with you if you go. You are to say which 
you would rather do, my little girl — stay here with your 
papa, who loves you, although he has not been what he 
ought to have been to you, or go away from him with 
your mother.” 

But Rosa’s years were too few for her to be able to 
take in the ethics of the case. It puzzled her a little to 
know why they might not all stay together in that 
“pretty, warm home” — that seemed the easiest and 
simplest way to cut this Gordian knot ; but since that 
might not be — since it was imperative upon her to make 
a choice between one or the other — her little face cloud- 
ed, and she looked wistfully into her mother’s cold, sad 
face as she asked : 


202 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


“ Out into the rain and the dark, mamma ? ” 

“Yes, child, out into the rain and the dark, where it 
will be always dark and always dreary " — Catherine an- 
swered almost as if she were helping to weigh the bal- 
ances down on Gregory’s side. 

“It’s cold at your house, mamma ; it’s so nicer here.” 

Catherine rose to her feet and gathered her wet w'raps 
about her, drawing the hood of her cloak close down 
over her hat. 

“ Catherine ! ” — with one wild cry of agony Gregory 
Kendall threw himself prone upon the rug at her feet 
— “ do not go out into the cold friendless world, when 
warmth and shelter await you here ! Let me make atone- 
ment ! ” — and he clung with detaining hands about her 
skirts. 

In rigid silence she disengaged his clinging fingers, 
and, stepping backward, looked down upon him in pity, 
but with no sign of relenting about her marble features. 

“I pity you, Gregory ! — pity you for the weakness that 
made you suspect me when you should have trusted me; 
for the weakness that kept you from facing me like 
a man when you did so suspect me, and give me a chance 
to right myself ; for the weakness that has made you 
a wanderer and an exile from your home so long ; but, 
more than all, I pity you for the supreme weakness that 
makes you still cling to the shadow of a home circle 
which your own hand destroyed, rashly but for ever. I 
would make you the most miserable man that walks 
God’s green earth if I listened to the prayers you are 
now uttering in the agony of your remorse. There is 
such a thing as peace, I suppose, meted out by infinite 
justice to the veriest of wretches ! I am going to seek 
that peace, but it must come to me hand in hand with 
oblivion. That I could never find near you nor under 
your roof. You have wealth, and you have our child ; to 
those good gifts I add my full, free pardon and my 
boundless pity. I have absolutely nothing more to give 
you. Rosa ! one farewell kiss ! You want to stay here, 
where it is warm and pretty, do you, child? ” 

“Yes’m,”says Rosa, simply. “But, mamma, you must 
tome back an’ see papa an’ me next week.” 

“ She does not understand. She cannot be made to 


/?OSA MAKES A CHOICE. 


203 


understand, and I thank God she does not ! ” the 
mother moaned, putting her once more upon her feet 
after a long and clinging caress ; and then, as irresistibly 
determined as Fate, she passed out from under the roof- 
tree whose luxurious shelter she had so scornfully re- 
jected, without one glance at the miserable man who was 
the author of all her woes. 

The midnight outgoing train moved gently from under 
the cavernous roof of the station-house, rumbled slowly 
and carefully through the streets of the lower city, quick- 
ened its pace gradually as the houses fell further and 
further away from its track — when with one wild shriek 
and a whir and a clatter of ever accelerated motion it 
sped into the free, open country, as if gladly flinging 
from its iron-shod feet the dust of the sin-stained city. 

Calm, starlight overhead ; peace, immunity, rest ! 
Dim lamplight all about ; anguish, narrowness, unrest ! 
Oh, who would live alway ! The barren fact of existence 
did not seem a very precious boon to one among the 
many who herded in that crowded car, self-enveloped 
and callously indifferent to the tales of joy or woe that 
were written in characters more or less legible upon 
every face there gathered. 

Lowering the sash, Catherine Kendall leaned her 
burning forehead against the window-frame, so that the 
cold, wet night air might cool its fevered surface. With 
her clasped hands folded upon her lap, and her sad eyes 
fixed upon the moving panorama of the star-lighted land- 
scape, she yielded herself up to the bitterest reflection. 

In solemn array, and in the order of their own selec- 
tion, she passed in review the events of the past four 
years. She dwelt with indignation upon Gregory’s mad 
mistake — with tender gratitude upon Hugh Gorham’s 
guardianship of herself and child — with pitying remorse 
upon the blight her presence had brought upon the 
happy home of the Havershams — with sternest self-re- 
proach that she had ever allowed herself to listen to its 
master’s loving solicitations ; but so exhausted was she 
mentally and physically, that she seemed to be striving 
to investigate a puzzle that had grown flat, stale, and 
wearisome. Sleep mercifully came to her deliverance, 
and the white lids kindly sealed the sad eyes that seemed 


204 


THE SILENT WITNESS. 


vainly endeavoring to pierce the thick black veil of her 
future. 

How long she slept she never knew ; but, awaking 
with a start, she discovered that she had been the object 
of somebody’s watchful care. The sash had been lowered 
to protect her from the chill night air, and a large soft 
plaid had been folded and placed between her head and 
the hard frame of the window. She who, with hard, dry 
eyes, had parted with the husband of her youth and 
yielded up her only child, fell to sobbing like a broken- 
hearted child over these little tokens that somebody had 
looked on her in kindness while she slept — some hand 
had been outstretched to ward off pain from her. After all 
she was but a woman — a lonely, heartsick woman, hun- 
gering for affection — pining for one touch of that human 
sympathy which makes the whole world kin. 

Her first softening surprise sobbed away, Catherine 
wiped her eyes and glanced about her to discover, if pos- 
sible, who among all those nodding, recumbent, sleep- 
overpoM^ered passengers could have so befriended her. 
Her first glance conveyed the impression that in all that 
car her own were the only open eyes. 

Turning slightly in her seat, she saw advancing 
towards her Hugh Gorham’s commanding form. He 
seated himself quietly by her side, and, scanning her sad 
white face with his earnest eyes, he said : 

“ You should take better care of yourself than to fall 
asleep, with the night dews wetting your hair.” 

“ Better care of myself ! ” she answered passion- 
ately. “ Why should I take any care of myself ? Why 
should I care to preserve a life that means nothing to any 
one ? Is it worth one’s while to labor and strive for the 
maintenance of a body in which the soul is dead, from 
which the heart has been crushed, from which every good 
and quickening impulse has fled ? ” 

“ It is natural that you should both feel and talk that 
way just now. You are a woman, and a suffering woman. 
But you are not a weak one, when you are at yourself. 
You do know that your life means everything to me. 
It is worth your while to labor and strive for the life of 
your body, as well as your soul. We will inevitably, 
sooner or later, Catherine, gravitate towards each other. 


JiOSA MAKES A CHOICE. 


205 


By the unalterable law of fitness you will at last find your 
home in my arms. As the days pass on, when the sore- 
ness of your present sorrow for your child wears out of 
your heart, you will come to feel what I have felt ever 
since I have known you, that we need each other. While 
you slept I pressed my lips to yours. It was my seal of 
possession, my sign of ownership. This might insult a 
commonplace woman. You dare not misunderstand me. 
You know I have given you the one solitary, abiding, 
soul-absorbing love of my life. As long as there was one 
hope of reconciliation between you and the weakling who 
has worked such mischief to us all, I held my peace. 
The law is a friend to those whom man has joined and 
God has put asunder. It holds the key that loosens the 
fetters of the bond-slave when they gall beyond endur- 
ance. Shall you and I always walk asunder, Catherine, 
because in your immature girlhood you made a mistake? 
I know what you are thinking. Your heart responds to 
every word I have said, for I have simply uttered truths 
that belong to you and me in common. The spirit of 
conventionalism within you is startled. Notwithstanding 
your declaration of utter and entire loneliness, you are 
wondering what people would say. I, too, have had a 
thought of that for your sake. But I could not let you 
slip away from me to-night, to go I know not where, 
without exacting from you a promise to let me exercise 
that guardianship over your welfare that is mine to ex- 
ercise by every moral and manly right. I will be very 
patient, Catherine ; but you must give me some assurance 
to-night upon which to feed my heart — my hungering, 
thirsting soul — my darling, my own, in the sight of 
heaven ! ” 

“ If I could give you that asked-for assurance, if I 
could give you anything upon which to feed the passion 
you have declared for me, I would be all unworthy of its 
continuance. You have done wrong to come near me. 
I only ask for rest. I cannot think, I cannot hope, I can- 
not respond ; whither am I drifting ? Is it into insanity, 
that my head throbs so, and I find it hard even to grasp 
the full meaning of your words ? The problem of life is 
too hard for me. I relinquish my claim to all my vaunted 
strength of mind ! There is a weak, womanly, animal 


2o6 


THE SILENT WIl'NESS. 


instinct within me, moving me to clasp your hand, to 
cling to your side, to listen to the words that hint of rest 
and shelter in your arms. If it is a sin to love you, then 
my soul is deeply dyed ; but all weak and wavering as I 
am, confused as my ideas of right and wrong seem to 
become under the blurring effects of your passion- 
dictated logic, Hugh Gorham, I will not yield me up to 
it. I—’' 

“ Medway ! ” The word was flung into their midst by 
the conductor, with all the force of his lungs and the in- 
difference of habitude. He knew of no passenger booked 
for that station. 

“ Medway, home, rescue, refuge ! ” and Catherine 
Kendall sprang quickly to her feet, threw off the hand 
that was outstretched to detain her, almost flew towards 
the open door, and sprang upon the platform just as the 
cars were once more set slowly in motion. A stern, 
dark face was framed in the window she had just quitted ; 
by the flare of the lamps she could see the reproach in 
his eyes. 

“ I could not help it,” she said, stepping to the edge 
of the platform to send her voice in to him. “ Do not 
seek to find me.” 

‘‘ I shall not. But you will find me ! My seal is set ! 
It cannot be broken ! The mills of the gods grind 
slowly ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

CONCLUSION. 

H ugh GORHAM was summering at Nice. Not that 
he needed the air of this mild Southern resort for his 
health. He had never been more magnificently un- 
conscious of a physique than at present. He was circling 
the habitable, i. <?., the fashionable, w^orld over in search 
of the woman who had eluded his grasp at a little way- 
side station called “ Medway,” now some three years 
gone. 

How often, but how bitterly, he had repented him of 
the rashly spoken words that had frightened her from his 


CONCL US/OAT. 


207 


side. If he had only waited, waited patiently for one 
short year, one little year, all the lease of life that had 
been granted poor Gregory Kendall in which to enjoy the 
innocent love and companionship of his child, before the 
shattered constitution had given way and he had been 
laid away to be forgotten, together with all the weak- 
ness and the errors that had wrought such misery for 
them all. 

Somewhere in Europe Mrs. Kendall was traveling 
without her daughter. To find her was now the one 
object of Mr. Gorham’s life. It had appeared to him to 
border on the marvelous that a widow, young, beautiful, 
and in command of wealth, should not have cast about 
her a sort of electric radiance that would shed its beams 
on the just and on the unjust, serving to guide his bewil- 
dered steps to her chosen resting-spot. 

A vague rumor had directed him to Nice. He knew 
that she was alone, for Rosa was then at school in the 
States. He had arrived only the week before, and now 
that he was here, fell to wondering what should be the 
next step in his ardent pilgrimage. He had taken rooms 
at the most fashionable hotel, thinking it a matter of 
course that she would seek companionship in a crowd. 

In a rather melancholy frame of mind he was pacing 
the quay on the first evening after his arrival, when a tap 
upon his shoulder made him pause and turn suddenly 
about to find a diminutive Frenchman extending towards 
him what seemed to be a small pocket-diary. 

“ Pardon, but did not monsieur drop this ? ” 

The lawyer waved him off with a denial of any interest 
in the treasure-trove. 

“ Then, perhaps, monsieur will assist in deciphering 
the name inside, so that I may trace the owner and 
restore what may be of immense value to some one*” 

Mr. Gorham, with something of impatience in his man- 
ner, held out his hand for the book. As he opened it, the 
name of “Catherine Kendall,” in the bold, free chirog- 
raphy he knew so well, first met his gaze ! 

“ I know who it belongs to ; it is an American lady. I 
shall restore it to her myself,” he said, imperiously, as he 
buttoned his coat over this precious clew and turned 
coolly away from the helpless discoverer of it, 


2o8 


THE SILENT WITNESS, 


“ She will advertise for it,” the lawyer said to himself. 
And she did. 

Towards noon the next day Mr. Gorham repaired to 
the place indicated in the advertisement for a ” lost 
diary,” to claim the reward promised for its restoration. 

“ After all, there is nothing in it,” said Mrs. Kendall, as, 
seated placidly by the man from whom she had fled, like 
one possessed of a devil, three long years ago, she per- 
mitted the fluttering leaves to glide one by one through 
her fingers. “ Diaries are stupid things at the best.” 

“ It is seldom that one of those stupid things proves an 
instrument in the hands of a kindly Fate, as this one has. 
My Kate, at last ! ” 

“ There is one line under a date that would have con- 
veyed no meaning to any one but you — oh ! my love ! — 
and to you it would have told of the torturing days of 
loving, longing, that has kept me roving like the tireless, 
restless thing I am.” She opened the diary and pointed 
to the date when she had fled from the proffered shelter 
of his arms. In it was written, ” Left the world to dark- 
ness and to me ! ” Catherine- Kendall’s eyes were raised 
in mute adoration to the man of her truest love. 


THE END. 



Jh 


UTidiL 


me 


TnatcJdM 




the 


ox 


hmidd 


(imJm 


ande 


mm 









It fs undoubtedly 
true tliat more chil- 
dren have been suc- 
cessfully reared by the 
use of Ridge’s Food 
than by the use of all 
the other foods com- 
bined. 

Do not experiment 
with your child, but 
take the food that has 
stood the test of time. 


. PUBLIC OPINION 

Justifies the claim that Rid- 
ge’s Food is the best daily 
diet for children. It makes 
bone, muscle, nerve tissue, 
and in every way builds up 
the system of the growing 
child. 


These are 

Bhookfield, Mass., Feb. 12, 1884. 

My little granddaughter, now about 
ten months old, weighed at birth but 

THREE POUNDS. 

Neither doctor nrr nurse had any ex- 
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Yours truly, 

H. H. Phetteplace. 


Facts: 

Boston, Mass., July 2, 1883. 

Nine years ago, a puny infant niece 
of mine was taken from the arms of its 
consumptive mother to be cared for 
temporarily in my family. My wife put 
it immediately upon a diet of Ridge’s 
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of several other cases of the use of 
Ridge's Food among my neighbors and 
friends and always with the same satis- 
factory results. 

Dan’l L. M1LL.IKEN. 



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